


Nightingale

by aritzen



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Spies & Secret Agents, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-05
Updated: 2018-03-10
Packaged: 2018-09-15 00:21:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 30
Words: 84,980
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9211553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aritzen/pseuds/aritzen
Summary: After he's put in charge of a new agent, Yaku Morisuke discovers just how far he's willing to go for love. Spy AU.





	1. Checklist

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer #1: I read the Haikyuu manga. While there are no plot spoilers, manga-only characters may show up. 
> 
> Disclaimer #2: I borrow some elements from Detective Conan, but this is not really a Detective Conan AU or a crossover because I keep what I like and toss what I don't. If you don't know Detective Conan, you can treat those elements as OCs. 
> 
> Disclaimer #3: I also borrow some names from Gintama, but they have no connection to Gintama. 
> 
> Disclaimer #4: I try to do as much research as possible, but that doesn't change the fact that I know nothing about biochemistry or computer science or the daily lives of spies, so don't forget your buckets of salt. 
> 
> Disclaimer #5: Last time I wrote a plot-heavy not-short story was I Don't Remember. I'm determined to finish this, but there always remains a non-zero chance that the story goes off to la-la land or I burn out before the end.

Morisuke curled his lip at the photo of Kuroo Tetsurou and flipped the folder shut. They were finalizing the transfer of the forensic chemist to the Public Security Bureau, and everything had been fine until a few hours ago when Morisuke suddenly opened his eyes at 5 a.m. and realized why the new PSB agent looked so familiar. By then it was too late to file for a change—not that it would’ve mattered because no one else they knew qualified for this undercover job. 

Cursing his fellow captain Kai for not saying anything earlier (he knew, the bastard _knew_ ), Morisuke peeked at the contents of the manila folder again. There it was, the glossy headshot of Kuroo Tetsurou, Todai Ph.D. in biochemistry, smirking at him like he had every right to do so. In retaliation, Morisuke checked off all the reasons why he deserved the right to kick a scientist in the ass: 

✓ Kuroo’s rooster hair was an insult to fashion.  
✓ Kuroo’s cocky expression was a disregard for professionalism.  
✓ Kuroo’s tall stature was 22.5 cm above the legal limit.  
✓ Kuroo’s keen sense of observation was what got Morisuke wrongfully arrested last summer. 

His phone rang. Morisuke took a deep breath and picked up the receiver. “Yaku speaking.” 

From the other end came the soft but clear voice of the administrative assistant Shimizu. “Yaku-san, Kuroo-san is here.” 

Morisuke tightened his grip on the receiver. “Thank you,” he replied, keeping his voice level. “Could you show him to the Chiyoda room?” 

After Shimizu answered in the affirmative, he ended the call and glowered at the folder for the third time that morning. _Whatever_ , he thought, snatching a different folder from his desk, and strode out of his office. With luck, the smartass would infiltrate the target organization, and Morisuke would never have to deal with him again except in the form of periodic reports in his inbox. Much like his present interaction with the other insufferable agent in his charge. 

_Or maybe he’ll fail_ , Morisuke told himself and swung open the door to the Chiyoda room. 

Kuroo spun around from the wall map of Tokyo, a tuft of his wild hair flying then flopping. Dressed in a black suit with a black tie, he looked unduly formal and stiff. He lowered his hands to his sides, slowly uncurling his fingers, and lifted a corner of his mouth as though he were evaluating the difference between a grimace and a wince. 

The phrase _too big to fail_ popped into Morisuke’s head, and he slammed the door behind him with more force than intended. As a result, the too-big-to-fail problem stood a little straighter, looked a bit more sober, possibly backed up a centimeter. _Good_ , Morisuke decided. 

“Sit down,” he said as he pulled out the rolling chair at the head of the conference table and tossed the plain presentation folder onto the wooden surface in front of him. 

Eyeing him with caution or perhaps skepticism, Kuroo took the seat to his left. It struck Morisuke then that Kuroo’s brown eyes, which the photograph had rendered as dull and bored, were actually rather watchful and intelligent, and that irritated him somehow. 

Kuroo asked, “Are you always this angry?” 

“What?” Morisuke growled. 

“You seem very angry.” 

“Yeah? And this case is very difficult,” he said crossly. 

He’d heard Kuroo’s silky voice before (at The Incident That Must Not Be Mentioned), but it got under his skin nonetheless despite the fact that—or was it because—it’d lost its edge and gained something he couldn’t identify. 

“Right,” Kuroo responded with a wry smile that Morisuke wanted to wipe from his face. “So what is so difficult about this case that a forensic chemist from the TMPD can handle but one of your own can’t?” 

Morisuke ignored the jab at the constant friction between the Tokyo Metropolitan Police Department and the Security Bureau. “It’s your CV,” he said, leafing through the job documents in the folder. “Only one forensic chemist in the PSB has a doctorate, but he specialized in toxicology, which he claimed wasn’t sufficient for the job. He nominated you because your dissertation was on—was...” He found the first page of Kuroo’s CV and read, “Constraints on the role of cy... cyclone—” 

“—cycloastragenol as a telomerase activator in the context of cutaneous T-cell lymphoma.” 

Heat rose to Morisuke’s cheeks. “Yeah, that. Tsukishima said it had to do with anti-aging effects.” 

Kuroo raised an eyebrow. “I wouldn’t go that far. My thesis actually refuted the controversial claim about anti-aging. But what’s this? Am I hearing this right? The PSB is developing an interest in anti-aging research?”

“Not us,” Morisuke snapped. “The organization we want you to infiltrate. And if this works out, you’ll be part of the PSB too, so stop mocking your own agency. The intel we have is that a high-ranking member of the organization is also a professor at Teitan University. We don’t know who, but we believe they’re doing research on immortality. Here are the faculty profiles from the biochemistry department. I want to know who you think is the most likely candidate.” He passed four printouts to Kuroo. 

“Is this a test?” Kuroo asked, holding the pieces of paper as if they had been coated in poison. 

“Yes,” Morisuke answered, even though this was more of a consultation. 

Morisuke watched Kuroo as he scanned the profile of each faculty. Nothing changed in his neutral expression when he read the first one, but he frowned and uttered a small sound of surprise when he read the second one. Curious and concerned, Morisuke wheeled his chair around the corner and accidentally bumped into Kuroo’s chair. “Sorry,” he muttered, leaning closer to read the profile. 

It was the one on Takeda Ittetsu, a meek-looking junior faculty who did research on cell death and apoptosis. The plan to infiltrate the Teitan biochemistry department involved applying for the job opening in Takeda’s lab, but Tsukishima, after browsing the department website, had ruled out Takeda as a candidate because cell death was on the opposite end of longevity and because he was a relatively new faculty. Kuroo’s reaction, therefore, was unexpected. 

“What is it?” Morisuke demanded. “What’s wrong with this profile?” 

“What? Oh, nothing’s wrong with it. I was just... It’s nothing.” 

“No. Tell me. I want to know.” 

Kuroo glanced at him, unsure. It occurred to Morisuke, as he held the gaze a few inches away and caught a whiff of sugar and spice, that he was in Kuroo’s personal space. It also occurred to Morisuke that if he jerked away, he would be flashing the neon lights spelling _I’m a fool_ above his head. So he stayed, determined to use the method of intimidation (not intimacy) to elicit an answer to his question. 

“It’s the word apoptosis,” Kuroo explained, pointing to it on the paper. “You know how some songs haunt you wherever you go? The word apoptosis is haunting me. It’s kind of Akaashi’s fault. He thought there was something weird about the heart attack in the autopsy he performed the other day, so he started discussing apoptosis with me, but we never got anywhere with it.” 

“I see,” said Morisuke, although he did not see. Apoptosis meant programmed cell death and was a natural biological process, but he knew nothing else about it. Since he failed to see its connection to heart attacks or to the task at hand, he set aside the urge to ask more about it and pressed no further. 

Kuroo paused on the third profile, which showed Wakasa Rumi, a long-haired woman wearing large glasses and a full professor whose research interests lay in the biology of aging and cancer. He met Morisuke’s eyes briefly, biting back what he wanted to say, and skimmed the last profile on Agasa Hiroshi, a balding and overweight professor who had a jovial smile and studied protein folding. 

Returning to Wakasa Rumi, Kuroo said, “She’s the obvious one. Maybe too obvious, if you ask me. To be honest, I don’t think I can rule out Takeda Ittetsu or Agasa Hiroshi until I know more about their research. The first one, Yoshida Shouyou, is probably the least likely candidate. I mean, I guess you could simulate immortal systems in computational biology, but I don’t know how useful that’d be.” 

“Why can’t you rule out Takeda Ittetsu or Agasa Hiroshi?” 

“Well, if you fully understand the mechanisms that trigger cell death, you can in principle try to halt it. And if you fully understand protein folding, you can start treating many age-related diseases like Alzheimer’s. Either one could pave the way for immortality, I suppose, but it’s a long shot. I can’t believe I’m talking about immortality like it’s a legit thing. Is your organization really trying to do this? You sure they’re not a bunch of crackpots?” 

_They say they’re of God and the Devil—_

“Not _my_ organization.” Morisuke removed the job application and the CV from the folder and slapped them down in front of Kuroo. “ _Your_ organization. You’re going to apply for the postdoc position in Takeda’s lab, and once you’re hired, you’re going to find out who the high-ranking member is.” 

There was a beat, and then Kuroo’s eyes widened. “Oh, hell no. Are you shitting me?” 

“I’m not. It’s an order. You’re our best bet. And that’s not how you should speak to your captain.” 

“I never—” Kuroo clamped his mouth shut and turned to sift through the sheaf of papers with disgust. 

Morisuke had expected triumph over smart assholes to bring elation, but all it brought was confusion over Kuroo’s vehement objection and a knot in his stomach. He pushed himself back to the head of the table and tried to remind himself that they knew what they were getting into when they joined the PSB. It was a mental exercise to shut out his worries about his undercover agents because he didn’t have enough lives for it, but Kuroo had never undergone training as an intelligence officer and his transfer was unprecedented. 

_It’s okay. He’s not really going to infiltrate the organization. He’s just going to confirm—_

“This isn’t exactly my CV,” said Kuroo. “And am I applying under my real name?” 

The memory of the meeting where they argued over this flooded over Morisuke. “About that,” he said after the surge of frustration receded. “We considered creating a different identity for you, but the problem is your dissertation. That’s impossible to forge if you’re going to work in an environment where your research credentials are crucial and your adviser an essential reference. This is also partly why we decided to recruit someone from the regular law enforcement and not the intelligence agency. Your cover is simple. After a couple years as a forensic chemist, you want a change of scene. You want to go back to the academic community, and you find Takeda’s research very interesting.” 

“Do I though?” 

“You’ll have to convince yourself because you’re the one going to the interview. You’ll also have to come up with the details for the rest of your cover story. The changes we made to your CV are to downplay your role in law enforcement, which is why you’re listed as a technician instead of the group leader that you actually were. Calls for you to the forensics division will be routed to the PSB.” 

Kuroo sighed. “What if I’m not hired?” 

“Then you’re fired. From the PSB. You can go back to the TMPD. It won’t affect your future.” 

“Good to know,” Kuroo said dryly. “And if I do get hired? How am I supposed to find out if Wakasa Rumi is the high-ranking member of some mysterious crackpot organization?” 

“We’ll talk about that after you’re hired. There’s no need for you to know too much if you never actually get involved because it could be really dangerous.” 

“Great. How reassuring. Crackpots coming after me. So who’s filling in for me down at the forensics division? You kind of pulled me out in the middle of an investigation. We’re short-staffed as it is.” 

“I’m glad you asked,” Morisuke said and glanced at his watch. It was 9:32 a.m. About thirty minutes had passed since he stepped into the room; their meeting was progressing faster than he’d anticipated. “The TMPD will make the final call, but we’re sending someone from the PSB to assist your group. His name is Haiba Lev.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Omake #DemonViceCaptain
> 
> Kuroo: Is your organization really trying to do this?  
> Yaku: Not _my_ organization. _Your_ organization.  
>  Kuroo: That's what I said.  
> Yaku: ... Kindly go commit seppuku.


	2. Coffee

Morisuke spent the next few minutes briefing Kuroo on the logistics of the assignment: the email account to use to submit the job application, the phone number to call to notify them of the outcome. 

“How long do you think it might take?” 

Kuroo tilted his head and thought for a moment. “Could take up to two weeks.” Seeing Morisuke’s confusion, he explained, “It’s the three reference letters. Academics like to procrastinate. I’ll try to push them, but I can’t be too rude about it. I’m already springing this on them, you know. They hate that.” 

Past conversations with his mother surfaced in Morisuke’s memory. A computer science professor at Beika University, his mother once confessed that she liked to leave things to the last minute “to create some excitement.” She also planned her schedule six months in advance and complained whenever she heard that he didn’t know if he would have some holiday off because it wasn’t that holiday yet. 

“What a difficult species.” 

Kuroo mumbled, “You’re not exactly easy yourself.” 

“What did you say?” 

“Hm? Did I say something?” 

The mischievous glint in Kuroo’s eyes roused a childish urge in Morisuke to kick Kuroo under the table, but Article 208 of the Penal Code (“When one person assaults another...”) and the golden sun emblem of the National Police Agency in his peripheral vision kept his feet on the carpeted floor. Instead, he stood and announced, “We’re meeting Lev at ten. I’m getting coffee before that.” Without waiting for Kuroo to react, he left the room. 

As he flounced into the kitchenette, he grumbled to himself, “What is his problem.” Before this meeting, he’d classified Kuroo as a nosy goody two shoes. After this meeting, he’d concluded that Kuroo was a jerk who enjoyed pushing other people’s buttons, which in itself would be easy to handle if not for the few moments where Kuroo was—where he was what? 

The coffee machine was filling his mug when Kuroo appeared in the doorway, clutching the folder, looking both disoriented and discomfitted. 

“If your administrative assistant hadn’t told me where this was this morning,” Kuroo said above the gurgling of the coffee machine, sounding slightly piqued, “I wouldn’t have known where to find you.” 

Morisuke could feel smugness tugging at his lips even as Kuroo towered over him. “This is called training. You might have to tail your target some day.” 

“Didn’t know you trained stalkers,” Kuroo muttered while Morisuke handed him a mug. “Er...” He swept his gaze across the laminated countertop displaying a microwave, an electric kettle, and a mug tree besides the coffee machine. “I don’t drink coffee. Do you have tea?” 

“What the hell? Who doesn’t drink coffee?” 

“Some people don’t drink coffee!” 

“Heathens,” Morisuke declared under his breath and opened the overhead cupboards one by one to search for the teabags that he knew they had. Stacks of paper plates and cups greeted him, followed by empty tupperware, assorted snacks, and more coffee beans. Finally, he spotted the box of teabags behind the cupboard door where he’d taped a scribbled note reminding people to _please clean up after yourselves or face the wrath of roaches and mice_. “Here you go,” he said, passing the box to Kuroo and receiving a “Thanks” in return. “There’s a water dispenser in the corner,” he added after he discovered that the electric kettle was empty. 

He watched Kuroo pick some orange fruity packet out of the box and wrinkled his nose because flavored tea was not real tea. Who bought those anyway? Leaving Kuroo to his fake tea, Morisuke carried his mug of black coffee to the small round table in the middle of the room. 

_How do we know he won’t half-ass the job application?_ Morisuke had asked Kai in the same spot a week ago. _He’s not accountable for the outcome either way._

 _Better that he half-ass it at this stage rather than later_ , Kai had replied. _But I don’t think he will._

Kai had cited no good reason for his hunch, and Morisuke remained unconvinced. After Kuroo settled into the creaky plastic chair next to him, he asked, “Why were you so upset when you found out about your job assignment?” 

Kuroo had the gall to look baffled as if Morisuke had imagined the whole incident. A split second later, Kuroo’s brain must have parsed the question because he made a face. “I wasn’t really upset,” he said. “I was just surprised. Have you ever been in grad school?” Morisuke shook his head, and Kuroo continued, “Let me tell you a secret. Dante wrote about that place. I never thought I’d have to go back.” 

Dante wrote about hell, but also purgatory and heaven. 

_—but all I see is the Devil’s lair disguised as Eden._

Morisuke hesitated, not sure how to interpret Kuroo’s troubling words. At the same time, there was no tension in Kuroo’s voice or his body language; his slouch and relaxed fingers, even a hint of liveliness in his expression, suggested the opposite. Was it a joke? His initial outburst had seemed genuine. 

“Are you okay with this?” Morisuke asked slowly. “The job, I mean.” 

“Oh! Are you concerned about my well-being, captain?” Kuroo exclaimed with mock astonishment, and Morisuke, all traces of worry erased, considered the feasibility of hurling Kuroo into hell himself. “S’fine,” Kuroo drawled and stretched out his legs under the table, his foot brushing against Morisuke’s. “I’m kinda intrigued by apoptosis anyway. And spying could be fun.” 

It didn’t completely reassure Morisuke, but it was good enough. 

“What does apoptosis have to do with heart attacks?” Morisuke asked as he sipped his coffee. 

“Are you also developing an interest in apoptosis, captain? I’m not sure that’s healthy.” 

“I’m just curious,” Morisuke said gruffly. 

“Well, there are two ways a cell can die: apoptosis and necrosis. Apoptosis is natural, necrosis is traumatic. In heart attacks, cells die by necrosis for obvious reasons. But in this case, our medical examiner found evidence for widespread apoptosis within the cardiac muscles. We weren’t sure if that was possible.” 

“Is this related to the investigation you mentioned earlier?” 

“I’m afraid that’s classified information, sir.” 

This time Morisuke shoved his foot against Kuroo’s without holding back. It was Kuroo’s own fault for putting it there. “Don’t be cheeky,” said Morisuke. “Anything the TMPD is working on is probably in the news. And we need to get going.” He finished his coffee, rinsed his mug, and waited for Kuroo in the doorway. On their way to the forensics lab, he prompted again, “So what about that investigation?” 

“Eh, some guy died of a heart attack at a sushi restaurant this past Sunday. There was nothing in the autopsy or the toxicology tests to suggest foul play, so that should be the end of any criminal investigation, but we wanted to understand the apoptosis heart attack. Long story short, we tried to dig into this guy’s medical records and discovered that he was actually using a fake identity.” 

“What?” Morisuke gaped at Kuroo and slowed to a stop in front of an open office door. 

“Yeah. How’s that for a twist? But—” 

“Yaku-saaannn!” An excitable beanpole bounded up to them, sending his wheeled chair clattering across the room and smacking into the wall. “You’re late!” 

“Good morning to you too, Lev,” Morisuke responded with the enthusiasm of someone tasked to clean the toilet. Finding himself between two tall people and remembering his former and current agents, he idly wondered which superior he offended in the past year that led to this arrangement. His only consolation was that they lived in a country clearly designed for people under 170 cm. “This is Kuroo,” he introduced, pointing from one to the other. “And that’s Lev.” 

“Nice to meet you, Kuroo-san! Your hair looks very fluffy! Like a Persian kitty! Can I pet it?” 

Morisuke choked back a snort while the twitch that preceded Kuroo’s smile betrayed the knife blades that he was hiding behind his friendly mask. “Very nice to meet you too, Lev,” he said pleasantly before he narrowed his eyes at Morisuke, who flashed the most innocent smile of his own. 

“He’s all yours now,” Morisuke said, like a parent delivering a trying child to the other parent. 

“Where are you going?” Kuroo asked when Morisuke turned on his heel. 

“Back to my office,” Morisuke replied, still smiling. “I’m busy with other things.” 

“What am I supposed to do?” 

“Tell him what he’s supposed to do when he joins your group. Introduce him to your group members. Show him around the TMPD building. Shimizu will help you with the paperwork. Good luck.” 

“I’m very excited to join your group, Kuroo-san. And Yaku-san!” Lev shouted after him. “I promise I’ll ace my training at the TMPD so I can be promoted to work as your agent when I’m back!” 

_What a nightmare that’ll be_ , Morisuke thought. He’d heard that declaration no less than five times in the last four weeks, and the hair on the back of his neck bristled as he marched down the hallway. 

Lev was a new hire that year and had just started his rotation in the forensics lab when Morisuke met with Tsukishima to discuss the undercover job. Despite knowing nothing about the job, Lev had volunteered for it several times, loud and confident that he was the best candidate. Then he had been equally deflated to learn that the job had been offered to someone else. It wasn’t until Kai proposed that he stood in for Kuroo Tetsurou in the TMPD that he cheered up again. 

“Good riddance,” Morisuke murmured as he walked into his office. 

The smell of fresh coffee indicated that Kai was up from his nap. Holding a steaming mug in one hand, he sorted through a pile of documents with the other. “How did it go?” he asked, looking up, dark circles prominent under his eyes. Morisuke had found him asleep on the couch at 7 a.m. with the lights on and an open notebook over his face, and deduced that he’d pulled a second all-nighter in a row. 

“Kai, let’s swap.” 

“Swap what?” 

“Cases.” Morisuke sat down at his desk and frowned at the manila folder that had neglected to dispose of itself. “Agents.” 

“Do you miss the all-nighters or do you miss the adrenaline rush?” 

“I miss working with nice, courteous agents who don’t look down on me. Literally.” 

“In other words, you miss Shibayama.” 

“I miss working with people like Shibayama. How’s your case going, by the way?” 

“Not well,” Kai said simply and jotted something down on a piece of paper. 

Morisuke had expected that answer. He clenched his jaw, feeling useless even though he knew it was unwarranted. They were investigating the same organization but from different entry points. Kai and Shibayama, Morisuke’s first agent, were tracking down illegal firearms. Recent leads had been dead ends—and something more in the past two days, but Kai had refused to divulge further information. 

“Shibayama’s good,” said Morisuke. “You’ll be fine.” 

“I’m aware.” Kai paused, as if he’d changed his mind about what he was going to say next. He’d been doing that a lot lately when it came to Shibayama. Or maybe it was Shibayama’s work. His next words caught Morisuke off guard. “Does that mean Kuroo Tetsurou is no good?” 

“I don’t know.” Morisuke jammed the manila folder into the back of his filing cabinet. “You’re the one who vouched for him. Speaking of which, why didn’t you tell me?” 

“Tell you what?” 

“That he was the guy who called the cops on me.” 

“I thought you knew.” 

“Well, I forgot. Completely blocked it from memory because it was so embarrassing.” 

“Did you also forget who arrested you?” Kai asked, amused. 

“I wish I could! That twerp. At least he seemed just as traumatized by the whole thing, if not more so. I guess I could forgive him since he wasn’t the one who actually dialed 110.” 

“Did you two talk about this?” 

“Who? Me and the cop? I don’t really know him.” 

“No. You and Kuroo.” 

“Oh. No. Thankfully. In fact, I hope we never talk about it.” 

“Maybe he doesn’t remember it either,” Kai suggested with a diplomatic smile. 

It was the smile he’d worn last summer when he explained to the owlish officer at the TMPD that the man he’d arrested for breaking and entering was, in fact, not Konishi Kouhei as his identification had claimed but Yaku Morisuke, a member of the Security Planning Division under the National Police Agency, there to retrieve the bugs planted by a PSB undercover agent who couldn’t return to the target safe house without jeopardizing his mission. And it was a smile that said absolutely nothing at all. 

Morisuke huffed. “Maybe.”


	3. Code

_Teitan U. Biochem prof. Code name Rum.  
ps. risked my neck for this. will have to lay low for a while. —D. _

 

* * *

 

Three days later, Morisuke unlocked the door to his office only to come to a startled stop. Kai, seated at his desk, gave Morisuke a resigned look. It didn’t surprise him to find Kai in their office before sunrise—not really, given the recent all-nighters—but he never expected to see his first agent rising from the couch, his eyes downcast as if he had done something wrong. 

“Shibayama?” 

Kai remarked, “You’re early today, Yaku.” 

“What happened to your face?” Morisuke blurted out, alarmed by the strip of gauze dressing on Shibayama’s left cheek. 

Shibayama exchanged a nervous glance with Kai. His shoulders tensed as he forced a chuckle that hit a higher pitch than normal. “Um, a... a cat scratched me.” 

“A _cat_? Shit, Shibayama. You expect me to buy that? What _kind_ of cat? Bruce Lee?” 

The raw indignation in Morisuke’s voice seemed to have landed on Shibayama like a blow to his injured cheek, and Morisuke regretted it. Truth was often uninspiring; Shibayama might have really just gotten clawed by a frightened cat he was trying to rescue from a tree, and Morisuke might have believed it if it weren’t for the stink of lies pervading the room. 

“A cat in the form of a bullet,” Kai said at last, perhaps tired of the act he’d had to put on. Before Morisuke could connect the chilling dots labeled _bullet_ , _firearm_ , and _death_ , Kai added, “It was my idea to keep this from you. Do you mind closing the door?” 

Jolted out of the horror scenario where the bullet hadn’t missed, Morisuke closed the door behind him and returned his keys to his pocket. He paused and turned the door lock again. 

“You’re not hurt anywhere else, are you?” he asked Shibayama in a softer tone. 

Visibly relieved, Shibayama replied, “No. I’m perfectly fine.” 

Scanning Shibayama from head to toe, Morisuke wished he had Sherlock’s superhuman ability to deduce the presence of hidden bandages from peculiar creases in a person’s outfit, but he discerned no telltale signs under Shibayama’s neat blazer and pants. Since Shibayama didn’t appear to be favoring any part of his body either, Morisuke chose to believe his words. 

“When did it happen?” Morisuke asked, moving to his desk. He needed coffee, but he wasn’t going to let those two escape when they clearly hadn’t wanted him to learn about it. 

“Last Wednesday,” Kai answered while Shibayama perched himself on the couch. 

Morisuke narrowed his eyes. “That’s when you pulled your first all-nighter. I should’ve guessed. What happened? Who fired the shot?” 

“A man named Numabuchi Kiichirou,” said Kai. “He’s dead. Someone else shot and killed him when Shibayama was engaging him. We don’t know who. The Gunma police are on the case.” 

“Gunma? As in Gunma Prefecture? This happened in _Gunma_?” 

“Apparently Numabuchi was a wanted serial killer,” Kai continued stoically. “However, he said something intriguing before he died. Shibayama, could you tell Yaku what he said?” 

“Oh, of course. It was like this, Yaku-san. He thought ‘the organization’ sent me to kill him. He went on and on about how he was never going ‘back there’ and how he was never going to become their ‘lab rat.’ He was terrified.” A shadow flitted across Shibayama’s expression. 

“I was planning to update you on this later today,” Kai said and smiled when he read _No, you weren’t_ on Morisuke’s face. “Lab rat. That’s your territory, isn’t it?” 

“You think this Numabuchi was a subject of some human experiment?” 

“Just keep an eye out for this. It might help us identify the other shooter and the motive for killing Numabuchi. Likewise, I’ll let you know if we have any leads on this.” 

Morisuke scoffed. “Says the one who was obviously going to keep this a secret if I hadn’t come in early today.” 

“That’s because you would become a worrywart if you knew what Shibayama was up to.” 

“I’m not a worrywart,” Morisuke said defensively. 

“Would you like to tell us why you’re here so early, then?” Kai asked with a knowing smile. 

It was a sympathetic checkmate, one that whispered: _You’re worried, and getting up before daybreak is the only way for you to address the problem or to forget that a problem exists._

Morisuke opened his mouth to reply, but a lie tumbled out instead, into the dust generated by their conversation about Numabuchi; Kai was withholding information, said Morisuke’s guts. “I was worried about Shibayama,” he stated, because the best lies contained a facet of truth. 

He was worried about his agent—just the one named Daishou Suguru, who had abruptly gone radio silent the week before. No, it was not radio silence, and he was not worried. His brain simply latched onto an anomaly like it was the Triple Dent Gum Jingle. Daishou’s last three reports had consisted of _Nothing to report_ , so even though he had not missed a single update in the year and a half he’d gone undercover, the lack of excitement in the underground world must have caused this to slip his mind. Morisuke would start worrying next week. 

“—have to worry, right?” Kai was saying. 

“Sorry, what?” 

“Shibayama said, and I repeated, you don’t have to worry. Every agent who works with you gets your little lecture on day one. They remember. They’ll be fine.” 

“I’m not worried,” Morisuke insisted, frowning when Kai rolled his eyes. 

His noble plan to start worrying, however, was completely supplanted two days later, when he received a phone call from Beika General Hospital informing him that his mother had suffered a stroke and fallen into a coma.

 

* * *

 

> [2016/11/01] **Mom**  
>  [03:23] I received two tickets to a Stravinsky opera playing on New Year’s Eve! Do you want to go?  
>  [07:06] why were you awake at 3am  
>  [07:07] Grant proposal deadline! Well? Do you want to go to the opera?  
>  [07:08] did you sleep. you know you should get enough sleep right  
>  [07:09] Am I your mother or are you my mother?  
>  [07:09] why stravinsky anyway. shouldn’t it be beethoven’s ninth for new year  
>  [07:10] Maybe they wanted to do something different this year!  
>  [07:12] i guess i should be able to go  
>  [07:13] Excellent! 

  


Morisuke closed the LINE app, stared at the _December 16_ on the screen, and placed his personal phone face down on his desk, next to a business card that his mother’s doctor had presented to him a week after his mother was rushed to the hospital.

“The treatment I’m proposing is experimental and expensive,” Dr. Miyano had warned him. “But the company that developed it understands the financial burden. If you want, you can meet with the company representative to discuss the risks of the treatment and the price.” 

Morisuke picked up the card and put it down again as he had done countless times in the last thirty-six hours, each time bringing him no closer to a decision. 

The white card bore the names of the company and the representative and an email address, all printed in black Latin letters. The company, Altana Pharmaceuticals, headquartered in Osaka, had checked out, but he couldn’t dig up anything on the representative M. Moscato. At first he thought it was a foreigner’s name, but now he wondered if it was an alias. Moscato was a type of wine, and certain members of “the organization” received code names based on alcoholic drinks. Why was there an extra _M._ though? An abbreviation for _monsieur_? French? The wine was Italian, so if it was a title, shouldn’t it be _signor_? Unless it was a real name? 

Morisuke checked the time. 3:54 p.m. He was scheduled to meet with Kuroo in six minutes. Kuroo had called two days ago, announcing that he got the job offer. Hearing the jaunty voice delivering what should be good news, Morisuke suddenly felt a sinking dread in his stomach. They were on board a speeding train, and the only safe way off was to reach the destination. 

Getting to his feet, Morisuke pocketed his phone, grabbed the new phone assigned to Kuroo, and, after a beat, picked up the business card. He would need to make a detour first. 

Tsukishima peered around his computer screen and removed his headphones when Morisuke showed up in the doorway to the forensics lab, knocking. “What?” said Tsukishima. 

“Can you help me with something?” Morisuke walked up to Tsukishima’s desk and held out the business card. “Can you lift the fingerprints from this?” 

Tsukishima glanced at the card pinched between Morisuke’s thumb and forefinger and clicked his tongue either in distaste or in disdain. “Your prints will be all over it,” he pointed out. 

“I know. I’m sorry. I didn’t think this would be related to the case I’m working on.” 

Tsukishima contemplated the card and finally pulled out a transparent evidence bag from one of the labeled drawers under the lab bench. “Do you need this for anything else?” he asked when Morisuke dropped the card into the bag. “Porous surface is a pain to work with, and depending on what I have to use, this might get stained or ruined.” 

“That’s okay. I have what I need.” 

“Do you want other tests done on this?” Tsukishima asked, studying the card. 

“Oh. I didn’t even think of that. If you have time.” 

“Might as well be thorough,” Tsukishima muttered as he filled out the form on the bag. 

“Thanks,” said Morisuke, grateful for both the favor and the lack of probing questions. 

When Tsukishima didn’t respond, he took his leave and made his way to the Chiyoda room. 

“Sorry I’m late,” he said to the room when he entered. The prolonged silence that followed prompted him to look up. Kuroo was regarding him with a perplexed expression, as though he was expecting someone else. “What?” Morisuke asked. Kuroo’s hair was still a wild mess, but he seemed more comfortable today, having given up his suit jacket for a sweater vest. 

“Are you okay?” 

“Huh?” 

“You look really tired.” 

What was this deja vu? “Do you comment on how people look every time you see them?” 

“What? No, I... I was just making sure you weren’t a mole in disguise.” 

Mole? Did he mean the animal or the figure of speech? How did he even come up with that? Too worn out to retort, Morisuke sat down and placed the new Sony Xperia in front of Kuroo. “Yours. Don’t let anyone else know about it.” He brought up the contacts list, which contained two entries: K.N. and Y.M. “That’s me,” he said, pointing at the second entry. “The other one is Kai Nobuyuki. He’s the other officer on this case. Only contact him if you can’t get in touch with me and it’s urgent. You shouldn’t need to use this phone much, but just in case.” 

“Right,” Kuroo said slowly and examined the phone. “So what exactly am I supposed to do?” 

“Just get to know the people in the department. What their research interests are, obviously, but also who they are, who they know, what other interests they have, what their views and beliefs are, those sorts of things. Pay attention to what they have in their offices and labs, and if possible, what they have on their computer screens. Talk to the faculty, but also the people around them. Maybe overhear a conversation or two. Earn their trust, ultimately.” 

“That sounds really broad. How would I know what’s important? What about immortality?” 

“That’s what you’re on the lookout for—immortality—but it might not be obvious. You might need to be subtle about it too. Use your best judgment. And your intuition.” Morisuke paused. “What I’m going to tell you next is what we know about the organization. It’s not much, but it should help you identify what’s important. There’s a leader. Members refer to him or her as That Person. High-ranking members are assigned code names based on alcoholic drinks. The one you’re looking for has code name Rum. The goal of the organization is unclear, but they seem to have members in the academic community, the tech industry, and the black market. It’s possible that they have members elsewhere, but we’re not sure. Their network is loose.” 

“And this isn’t the yakuza?” 

“No. They don’t follow the yakuza code. In fact, the yakuza seems wary of them too.” 

“Shit, really? How long have they been around?” 

“We got wind of them about two years ago, but they must’ve been around much longer.” 

_Something’s happening in the org. Hell if I know what. —D._

Remembering a useless update from Daishou, Morisuke sighed. “So,” he said. “I thought about how you should report back to me. Your mission is to identify Rum. Nothing more. There’s no need to update me on the minutiae. If there’s something you think I should know or if you need my help in any way, just give me a call on that phone or send me a text, but—and this is very important—you can only use the code word ‘dinner’ or ‘drink.’ I’ll reply with when and where to meet. There are a few establishments that have ties with the NPA.” 

Kuroo blinked. “Wait, so... Let me get this straight. I would ask you if you want to get dinner or something, and you would say... yes? Then we rendezvous? Is that how this works?” 

Morisuke tried to ignore how suggestive he made that sound. “Something like that.” 

“You know that sounds really—” 

“One more word from your mouth and you’ll be leaving this room with a very bloody nose.” 

Kuroo nodded wordlessly but did nothing to hide his lopsided grin. 

“Last thing,” Morisuke continued, suddenly very ruffled. “If you must mention me by name, use my alias Konishi Kouhei. But it’s best to use a generic word like ‘friend’ or something.” 

Kuroo nodded again, amused by something Morisuke didn’t know and didn’t want to know. 

“We’re done here,” Morisuke declared, scowling, and marched out of the room. 

The moment the cool air in the hallway hit him, however, he got the nagging feeling that he’d forgotten something extremely important. But what? _Phone. Organization. Rum. Update. Update? No, not update. It’s Daishou. Daishou? But Kuroo doesn’t need to know—oh._

_Every agent who works with you gets your little lecture on day one._

Morisuke jerked to a halt and spun around but crashed into someone. “Sorry,” he sputtered. 

“You okay?” asked Kuroo. 

“What? What are you—” But he never completed his sentence because Kuroo was too close _too close TOO CLOSE_. He yanked himself out of Kuroo’s arms with a “Never mind” and turned around, taking large steps down the hallway that was ten degrees warmer all of the sudden, his heart exerting itself like he’d just sprinted up a steep hill.


	4. Cocktail

When Morisuke was a student at the National Police Academy, a classmate of his, Nishinoya, once demonstrated the so-called Rolling Thunder Experiment to him. It consisted of a circuit with a bunch of wires, a few transistors, and a small resistor connected across a transformer. The instant Nishinoya flipped the switch, there was a POOF and the resistor burst into flames. While Nishinoya laughed and cried out in success, Morisuke frantically searched the lab for a fire extinguisher, but the flame died away before he could get to it. 

Bumping into Kuroo just now had felt like that—like something had flipped the switch of a faulty circuit in his brain and fried a resistor somewhere. _What the hell._ He shook his head and breathed. It must be the stress and the lack of sleep. Yes, that must be it. In fact, it was so bad that he was starting to hear the soft taps of out-of-sync footsteps behind him and—

He spun around again. Kuroo raised his hands in surrender and took a swift step backward as if Morisuke had pulled a gun on him. 

“Are you going to follow me everywhere now?” Morisuke exclaimed. 

“You didn’t say I couldn’t,” Kuroo answered and then smirked. “Who was the one who said, ‘This is training because you need to follow your target some day’?” 

“I do _not_ need to deal with this shit right now.” Morisuke threw his hands up and moved down the hallway to unlock his office door. Kai must still be in his meeting with Chief Nekomata. 

“Nice office,” said Kuroo. “Who’s your office mate?” 

A mental fuse blew. Not caring where he was putting his hands and certainly not listening to Kuroo’s confused protests, Morisuke shoved Kuroo into the hallway and reached for the door. “You do _not_ have the security clearance to be in here!” he declared and slammed the door. The panel bounced back, and Kuroo peered at him through the gap, pressed against the door. He pushed again to no effect and glanced down. Kuroo had wedged a foot between the door and the door frame. “What the fuck?! Take your foot out! I can’t close the door like this!” 

“No, wait. Yakkun, listen to me.” 

His heart thumped. “Don’t call me that!” 

“No, seriously. Listen.” There was something in Kuroo’s voice that made Morisuke hesitate, something that was not quite pleading but undeniably earnest. “I don’t know what’s wrong, but you look like you really need a break. It’s Friday. It’s almost five. So what do you say? Want to go for a drink or something?” Kuroo smiled, the incomprehensible kind that knotted Morisuke’s stomach, as opposed to the simple smirk, grin, and derision that ticked him off. 

“Can you not do that?” Morisuke asked in a tight voice, twisting the door knob in his hand. 

“Huh? Do what?” 

“You know.” _Smile like you mean it._

“You mean you don’t want to go for a drink?” 

“No!” Morisuke stamped his foot in frustration when Kuroo had the nerve to look wounded. 

“I thought you were supposed to say yes every time,” Kuroo grumbled. 

“Oh my god. That is that, this is this.” Morisuke gave the door a shove even though he knew it would do nothing. “Why are you like this?” 

Kuroo flinched. “Like what?” 

Morisuke groaned and stared at the ceiling, waiting for some sort of divine aid to manifest itself on the white paint. Before he could say anything further, someone cleared his throat in the hallway. Kuroo glanced over his shoulder and stepped away from the door. Partly out of momentum and partly out of reflex, Morisuke shut the door with a wham. Then it occurred to him that that was neither what he wanted to do nor what he should’ve done. 

Indeed, Kai’s voice sounded from the other side. “What are you doing, Yaku? Open the door.” 

After beating on his forehead with the ball of his hand, Morisuke opened the door. “I’m sorry,” he murmured, meeting their eyes briefly, and shuffled to his desk, feeling utterly defeated. 

“You’re Kuroo Tetsurou, aren’t you? I’m Kai Nobuyuki. Nice to meet you. Come on in.” 

“Er, Yaku says I don’t have the security clearance to go in there.” 

Morisuke sank into his chair and caught Kai’s sharp look. “I wasn’t thinking when I said that,” he admitted with a sigh. 

“Did Shimizu give you a new ID card?” Kai asked Kuroo. “Then you can come here _anytime_.” The emphasis, while said to Kuroo, was directed pointedly at Morisuke, who ignored it and took a gulp of water from his mug. “Yaku, I think you need to take a break.” 

“That’s what I told him too,” said Kuroo. 

Morisuke scowled. “I’m fine.” 

“You haven’t been eating properly this week, and that’s worrisome,” Kai noted. 

“What? I _have_ been eating.” 

“There’s a difference between eating and eating properly. What did you eat for lunch today?” 

Morisuke frowned, trying to recall his lunch. He could picture himself walking into Lawson and purchasing a few meat buns and some fried chicken. But was that yesterday or today? There might have been a day he settled for a few containers of cup noodles. “I ate,” he said weakly. In between hospital visits and the work that’d piled up because of those hospital visits, he’d been filling his stomach with what was closest and fastest. Now there was even more work. 

“Kuroo, forget whatever Yaku told you to do. Get him to take a break. It’s Friday.” 

“Alright, buddy. Let’s go.” Kuroo gestured to the door with his thumb. 

_Friday_ , Morisuke realized. He’d forgotten, but he doubted Kai had reminded him on purpose. “Fine, let’s go.” He put on his jacket and grabbed Kuroo’s sleeve, dragging Kuroo behind him before Kai could figure out where they were going and stop them. “I know a nice bar.” 

“Which bar?” Kuroo asked when they were in the elevator. 

“Blue Parrot,” Morisuke replied, smiling. 

“Something tells me we shouldn’t go there. How about we get dinner and put you to bed?” 

Morisuke’s smile widened. “Oh, but Blue Parrot is the best bar in Beika.”

  


* * *

  


Despite what the owner Terushima Yuuji touted, Blue Parrot was not the best bar in Beika. In reality, it was one of the businesses unofficially affiliated with the NPA, the place serving not quite as a safe house and Terushima doubling not quite as a courier. Morisuke didn’t know how it came to be, just that it was when Chief Nekomata suggested it to him and Daishou. On a random day every week, Daishou would leave a message with Terushima; and every Friday, Morisuke would pick it up during happy hour. That had lasted until three weeks ago. 

“Um,” Kuroo said, reading a text message on his new phone as they walked down the street. “Kai just told me to stop you from going to Blue Parrot.” 

“Hah, took him twenty minutes to catch on. Too late now.” Morisuke pulled open the steel door to Blue Parrot and marched past a couple of occupied pool tables to the bar counter. 

“Well,” Terushima greeted with a big grin. “Look who’s here. Didn’t think you’d make it.” 

“Stuff came up,” Morisuke said, referring to the previous week when he’d missed happy hour because of his mother’s admission to the hospital. 

“Stuff, huh. New friend?” Terushima nodded at Kuroo, who’d joined them at the counter with a reproachful look aimed at Morisuke. 

“No, not friend,” Morisuke replied. “He’s nobody.” 

Kuroo held a hand over his heart. “How could you say that, Yakkun. That hurts my feelings.” 

“I told you not to call me that,” Morisuke snapped, his cheeks warming, and smacked Kuroo’s arm for good measure, hoping that he would get it but painfully aware that he wouldn’t since Morisuke had never explained that _friend_ in this context meant _new agent to attend to_. 

“Ah, a different kind of friend,” Terushima observed. “Got it.” 

Not interested in continuing that conversation, Morisuke asked, “What’s this week’s special?” 

_Cocktail when there is something to report, wine when there isn’t._

“Kirin Lager,” Terushima drawled, perhaps reluctant to deliver the bad news. 

“Beer? Beer for the third week in a row?” 

“It is what it is.” Terushima shrugged as if it wasn’t his fault, which it wasn’t, although he’d had to come up with the idea to use beer when Daishou failed to show up three weeks ago. 

“Fuck, I hate beer,” Morisuke muttered. Daishou was officially MIA, and that did not sit well with him. Something about the timing also bothered him, but what was it about three weeks? 

“Want to order something else?” Terushima asked. 

Maybe he really should take a break. “Get me the strongest thing you have,” said Morisuke. 

Terushima quirked an eyebrow while Kuroo emitted a sound of surprise. Setting to work, Terushima scooped up a few ice cubes with a tall glass, gripped the necks of four bottles of liquor, poured them into the glass, added some liqueur and a splash of coke, garnished it with a slice of lemon, and inserted a straw. “Long Island Iced Tea. Extra long.” He placed the glass on a paper coaster in front of Morisuke and turned to Kuroo. “You, big guy?” 

“Uh, can I just get some coke?” 

“Just coke? No alcohol? Any ice?” 

“Yeah ice. No alcohol.” 

Morisuke stared at Kuroo. “What the hell? First no coffee, and now no alcohol? I would ask if you were some health freak except you just ordered coke. You know it has caffeine, right?” 

Kuroo seemed insulted. “I have nothing against caffeine. I just don’t like coffee. Or alcohol. They’re generally too bitter for me. I prefer sweeter things.” 

Morisuke responded by taking a large sip of his Long Island Iced Tea, tasting the bittersweet and fiery mix of gin, vodka, rum, and tequila as it hit the back of his throat. After Terushima handed the world’s dullest sugar drink to Kuroo, Morisuke picked his way through the tables and slid into a booth in the corner. From there, he could watch almost the entire bar. Four men were split evenly between two pool tables near the entrance, a group of three occupied a table next to the wall, and a woman who’d entered after them was chatting with Terushima. The TV across the room was reporting on the latest Twitter antics of Donald Drumpf. 

Kuroo studied the small leather menu on the table while Morisuke continued sipping his drink, his mind replaying the events from three weeks ago. The week that Daishou “disappeared” was the week that Morisuke had his first meeting with Kuroo. Was that the odd coincidence? What else happened that week? Lev transferred, but that was related to Kuroo’s case, not—

Lev? 

_You kind of pulled me out in the middle of an investigation_ , Kuroo had said. 

What else did he say? 

_Some guy died of a heart attack this past Sunday... He was using a fake identity._

“Kuroo,” Morisuke said, suddenly feeling sick to his stomach. 

“I can see why Kai didn’t want you to come here,” Kuroo was saying. “They don’t serve real food. We’re going to a proper restaurant after you finish that drink. I get to decide where.” 

“Kuroo,” Morisuke repeated in a louder voice, and Kuroo looked up. “The guy who died of a heart attack. The apoptosis one. Do you know what he looked like?” 

“Huh? Why are you asking about him?” 

“Just tell me.” 

Kuroo furrowed his brows. “No work talk.” 

Morisuke hissed, “This is important!” 

“Oh. Why? Never mind. I never saw his body or his photo, so I don’t know.” 

“Typical,” Morisuke muttered to himself. There had to be another way. _Fake identity._ “Alias. What was his alias? What identity was he using?” 

“Uh, what was it again?” Kuroo scratched his head. “Something Dai. Moro... Moroboshi Dai?” 

“Moroboshi Dai?” Morisuke echoed. “You sure it was Moroboshi Dai? Not something else?” 

“I’m pretty sure. I could ask Akaashi to double-check.” 

“That’s okay.” Morisuke slumped back in his seat and let out the breath he’d been holding. Even if Kuroo couldn’t remember it exactly, it was improbable that he would mistake Daitou Yuu, Daishou’s alias, for Moroboshi Dai. Red herring then. Morisuke chewed on his straw. He was getting worked up over nothing. If something really did happen to Daishou, someone else would care a lot more about it. Morisuke made a mental note to visit her tomorrow. Frankly, he should’ve done that sooner. He’d really been too distracted. 

“Say, how’s your alcohol tolerance?” Kuroo asked tentatively and indicated Morisuke’s glass. “You’re chugging that like it’s regular iced tea in the middle of July.” 

“I’m fine,” Morisuke said, but he conceded that the drink packed more punch than usual. Already, the alcohol was circulating in his bloodstream, relieving the tension in his muscles. 

“Are you sure? You’re pint-sized. Usually—ow, shit, what the fuck.” Kuroo winced and reached down to remove Morisuke’s foot from his shin but could only pat Morisuke’s ankle helplessly. 

“Sorry, I didn’t hear what you just said. Could you repeat it, loud and clear?” 

“I mean—I said you must have amazing levels of alcohol dehygrogenases to help you metabolize ethanol. I’m very impressed. You can drink everyone under the table, sir.” 

Morisuke withdrew his foot, and Kuroo sighed in relief, sneaking a peek under the table. 

Ignoring Kuroo, who was either massaging his shin or flexing his knee or maybe rearranging his legs to avoid the kick zone, Morisuke slurped his drink and fixed his gaze on the TV. The news channel cut from the coverage of a corruption scandal involving the politician Oikawa Tooru (who maintained his innocence) to a collaboration between the Russian billionaire Yuri Landau and the Japan Aerospace Exploration Agency. _JAXA Announces Interstellar Mission_ , read the caption. 

“Why JAXA?” Morisuke murmured. “Why not NASA?” 

Kuroo turned to the TV and turned back with mock incredulity. “You know what NASA is?” 

Morisuke glanced under the table and chortled at the sight of Kuroo sitting sideways with his legs crossed and therefore outside the range of The KickTM. “Are you stupid?” he asked. 

“Hey, I know what NASA is.” 

Morisuke wanted to laugh. “Who’s talking about NASA?” 

“You were the one asking about NASA.” 

“Why are we talking about NASA?” 

“You—Yakkun, are you drunk?” 

“No.” Morisuke set his empty glass on the table and closed his eyes, slouching in his seat. “Fucking billionaires with too much money to throw out the window.” 

“Don’t like interstellar missions?” 

“Don’t see the point. People will still get sick. People will still die.” _And it won’t wake Mom up._

The full cost of the treatment developed by Altana Pharmaceuticals would put him in debt. They didn’t sell it as a panacea, which was both good and bad. Good, because they were realistic about it, and that lent them credibility. Bad, because it might not work after all that. Morisuke didn’t know why he was wavering. There should be nothing to lose and everything to gain by communicating with M. Moscato. At the very least, he would find out who or what he was dealing with. But his mother had been so healthy. Was it her erratic sleep schedule? 

“Kuroo,” Morisuke said. 

When nobody answered, he forced his eyes open but shut them again in annoyance because the seat across from him was empty. _Asshole, we were in the middle of a conversation._

The sounds in the bar grew louder: the clack of billiard balls, the hum of conversations, a peal of laughter, and a quiet pop song playing on the radio. 

Someone tapped his shoulder. “Yaku,” said Kuroo. 

“Wha—?” Morisuke squinted at Kuroo. “Where the hell did you go?” 

“I went to get you some water.” 

“I don’t want water.” 

“No. You need to drink some.” 

Morisuke tried to dismiss Kuroo, but in waving his hand around, he ended up catching Kuroo’s arm and pulling it closer. “Tell me something.” 

“I’ll tell you after you drink this.” 

“What the hell, Kuroo.” 

“Come on, it’s just water.” 

Grudgingly, Morisuke took a sip. 

“Yaku, you need to finish the whole glass.” 

“What? Ugh, forget it.” Morisuke closed his eyes again and slumped against the wall. 

“Yaku, you can’t sleep here.” 

There was a pause, and then a sigh and a rush of cool air. 

_Love is not forever_ , sang the woman on the radio. _Just like yesterday never returns. So please look at me, in case we don’t meet the day after._

“Dude,” came Terushima’s voice. “I pegged him as an angry drunk, not this.” 

“That’s not funny,” said Kuroo. “It’s your fault.” 

“Hey, he asked for the strongest thing we had. He was completely fine the last time he had it. Did he skip lunch today or something?” 

Morisuke swore at them in his head. Did those two idiots think he couldn’t hear them? He was not an angry drunk—quite the contrary, thank you very much—and he never blabbed under the influence of alcohol, otherwise he would have to stay dry given his line of work. Also, he ate three rice balls for lunch today. Oh, was that what he had for lunch today? 

Someone tugged his arm and wrapped an arm around his waist. _Sugar and spice. Kuroo._ Kuroo was saying something, and it sounded nice. His voice was nice. Everything about him was nice. Even his hair was nice. Morisuke moved, following instructions that he understood but never registered, aware of nothing except putting his arms around Kuroo’s neck and resting his cheek on Kuroo’s back. He could stay there forever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The lyrics in this chapter are adapted from [this song](http://y.baidu.com/song/337737).
> 
> A few notes on names: 
> 
> 1\. Altana Pharmaceuticals is named after the Gintama "altana" (which grants eternal life), not any real Altana companies.  
> 2\. Yuri Landau is named after the physicist Landau and the billionaire Yuri Milner, not a certain popular skating anime.  
> 3\. Moroboshi Dai is a Detective Conan character, not a Slam Dunk character.  
> 4\. JAXA's interstellar mission is inspired by but bears no resemblance to the one funded by Milner & Zuckerberg.  
> 5\. Donald Drumpf is Donald Drumpf. I know not of this Donald Trump you speak of. 
> 
> Finally, please drink responsibly and do not try Noya's Rolling Thunder Experiment at home.


	5. Conversation

Morisuke woke up, hungry, thirsty, and desperate to pee. Groaning, he sat up. Suddenly seized by the terror that he had no idea where he was, he searched his pants pockets. Empty. He stared at the pillow and lifted it, beneath which he found his keys, his wallet, and his two cellphones. _Calm down_ , he told himself as he took a deep breath. He was not bound or injured or naked. If his belongings were under the pillow, he was most likely the one who put them there, albeit subconsciously. 

Both of his phones displayed _10:38 p.m. Fri, 16 December_. He must’ve been out for four or five hours. The last thing he could remember was talking to Kuroo. Was this Kuroo’s place? He cringed at the lapse of everything, but it’d already happened, and he really needed to pee. 

Making his way to the door, he swept the flashlight on his phone across the windowless room previously illuminated by the sliver of light under the door. A single bed, a kotatsu, a small TV on a stand, and—was that a pile of game consoles? This wasn’t Kuroo’s bedroom, was it? There was nothing else and barely any room to walk. 

He opened the door, blinking, and tucked his phone away. Kuroo, sprawled out on the couch, looked in Morisuke’s direction and scrambled to his feet. He set his laptop aside and asked, “How’re you feeling?” 

“Where’s your bathroom?” 

Alarmed, Kuroo asked, “Do you need to puke?” 

“I need to pee!” 

“Oh. Here.” Kuroo opened the door adjacent to the bedroom and turned on the light. 

“Thanks,” Morisuke murmured, stepping into the bathroom, and locked the door behind him. 

After he was done, he splashed water onto his face and rinsed his mouth to get rid of the foul aftertaste of alcohol. There were two cups and two toothbrushes next to the sink, one red and one yellow, and he wondered who the other one belonged to. Were two people living here? Other items came in ones: razor, shaving cream, deodorant, moisturizer, soap. He cracked a smile at the array of combs and hairbrushes that had evidently failed to tame Kuroo’s mop of hair. Out of curiosity, he opened the cabinet below the sink. Toilet rolls, tissue boxes, cleaning supplies, bottles of shampoo and soap, a first aid kit. No obvious signs of a woman living here. He furrowed his brows. Why did he care? 

As he straightened up, he caught his reflection in the mirror. Crumpled shirt, bloodshot eyes, messy strands of wet hair. He looked like crap, and somehow he felt self-conscious about it. Belatedly, he realized he hadn’t seen his jacket or his shoes anywhere. 

He emerged from the bathroom, and Kuroo, waiting by the door, held up a glass of water. 

“Figured you’d want this.” 

“Oh. Yeah. Thanks.” Morisuke took the glass and gulped the water. A swell of embarrassment and guilt clashed with the feeling of gratitude, and he resented the inexplicable warmth. 

He shouldn’t be here. 

“Do you want something to eat?” Kuroo asked when Morisuke handed the empty glass to him. “I made you dinner, though I guess it’s more like supper now.” 

“What?” 

“I made you dinner. Or do you want to go back to sleep? You should probably eat something.” 

Morisuke stared at Kuroo while his brain overrode the response that his stomach demanded. “Why are you doing this?” 

“Huh? Well, I can’t let you starve, can I? I had to eat too, so it wasn’t like it was extra work.” 

“No, I mean... You know what? I’m really grateful, but I don’t think I should impose on you any more than I already have. It’s not that late yet. I’ll just grab some food on my way back.” 

“Whoa, there.” Kuroo blocked Morisuke’s path, his hands resting on his hips. “No way in hell I’m letting you leave, you workaholic. If you fight me, I’ll lock you in that room over there.” 

“What? You can’t do that. That’s called abduction.” 

“Don’t make me get Kai’s permission.” 

“Was that supposed to be a threat? You answer to me, not Kai.” 

“Look here, buddy. You caused me a lot of trouble. Did you think you could walk out without paying me back? I’m joking. You should’ve seen the look on your face. I don’t want anything from you. Just don’t let the food go to waste, man. If you must leave, I’ll send you back after you eat.” 

“I can go back by myself,” Morisuke asserted as he followed Kuroo into the kitchen. 

“And what? Fall asleep in a dumpster somewhere?” 

“That won’t happen, you ass!” 

“Says Mr. I-Passed-Out-In-A-Bar.” 

The flames of humiliation burned Morisuke’s cheeks, and he was appalled by his own inability to make a retort. 

Kuroo filled a bowl with rice and smirked at him. “Oho, cat got your tongue?” 

Gritting his teeth, Morisuke spotted his shoes and his jacket in the foyer. He was a fast runner. 

“If you think you can outrun me on my turf, think again,” Kuroo remarked casually. 

Morisuke glared at Kuroo. _How the fuck._

“Come sit down,” Kuroo said, ladling soup into another bowl. “I’ll be done in a sec.” 

“You’re infuriating, you know that?” Morisuke managed to say, but Kuroo just grinned. 

Heaving a loud sigh to convey precisely how infuriated he was, Morisuke planted himself on one of the two chairs at the small dining table pushed against the wall. Kuroo removed a plate from the oven, and Morisuke turned his head to scrutinize the smudges on the wall as if that would prevent the sweet and salty aroma of fish fillets from drifting to his nose. When Kuroo started to hum a tuneless tune, Morisuke squeezed his eyes shut, but it amplified the sounds and heightened his awareness of Kuroo moving about the compact kitchen. _Why_ , he yelled in his head. Out of despair, he ran a mental search through the Penal Code for an article that defined justifiable homicides and pardoned the perpetrators, but it returned zero results. 

“Here you go,” said Kuroo. “You okay?” 

Morisuke glanced down to find a familiar Japanese rice bowl dish beside a bowl of miso soup. “What is this?” he asked in a surly tone, as if “this” was the vilest of all vile existences. 

“Unadon. Uh, you eat eel, right?” 

Morisuke picked up the chopsticks with a weak sigh, too hungry and exhausted to continue whatever it was he’d been doing. “Not my favorite, but it’s fine.” 

“What _is_ your favorite?” Kuroo asked after he took the chair across from Morisuke. 

Struggling not to inhale the food, Morisuke met Kuroo’s eyes. He was tired too, Morisuke noticed with a pang of guilt. Kuroo was supporting his head with his fist and wearing a faint smile, not flippant or flirtatious, merely—what was the word—content? “None of your business,” Morisuke muttered around a mouthful of rice. 

“Oh, come on. I’m not asking you to bare your soul, just what you like to eat.” 

“Why? Are you planning on doing this again?” 

“In case you missed the memo, Yakkun, this was not _planned_. Look, I don’t know what’s going to happen in the future, but since we’re here, you might as well tell me what your dietary restrictions are so I don’t accidentally cook something that’ll kill you if you get drunk again.” 

“I won’t get drunk again!” 

“And smokers always say they’ll quit after the next cigarette.” 

“I’m not—what’s _your_ favorite food?” 

Kuroo raised his eyebrows. “Mackerel pike, salted and grilled.” He paused. “I think starfruit is the weirdest fruit on this planet. I can’t stand cilantro or spicy food. I also hate mushrooms. And I find pineapples on pizzas gross. Same with cooked carrots, but raw carrots are fine.” 

Morisuke stopped chewing, taken aback by the extraneous information. “You’re so picky.” 

“If you think I’m picky, you haven’t met the real picky ones.” 

“And you have?” 

“Childhood friend. He only eats like five things cooked in very specific ways. Okay, your turn.” 

“What?” 

“I told you my food preferences. Now it’s your turn to tell me yours.” 

“What is this? A questions game?” 

“Y’know, I’m starting to think your favorite food is McDonald’s Happy Meal, and you don’t want to admit it because it’s too embarrassing. Is it the chicken nuggets or the toy? I won’t laugh.” 

“That’s not—what the hell? How do you even—I like stir-fried veggies, okay? Happy now?” 

“Veggies? Really? I thought you’d be some sort of carnivore.” 

“Even cats eat grass!” 

“That’s because it helps them with their digestive tract, not because it’s their favorite.” 

“Yeah, whatever, Mr. Smarty Pants.” 

“So is there anything you don’t eat?” 

“Not really.” But because he wanted to spite Kuroo, he added, “I don’t care for fish though.” 

“Really now. ‘Cause I couldn’t tell from the way you were eating.” 

Morisuke had just shoved the last bite into his mouth when Kuroo made that wry observation. In truth, the grilled eel was one of the best he’d ever had, but he chalked it up to the fact that he was famished. Even dirt would taste like delicacy to starving people. He glanced at his empty bowl and at the remaining fillets on the counter, and had the suspicion that he would hate Kuroo for what he was going to say next if that self-satisfied smirk was any indication. 

“If you want seconds, you can just ask,” Kuroo said, practically gloating. 

Morisuke entertained the idea of refusing another serving in order to witness Kuroo’s face fall, but his stomach ultimately triumphed over his pride. He held out his bowl, and Kuroo beamed. 

While Kuroo prepared the second serving, humming that stupid tune again, Morisuke finished the miso soup. This time, he watched Kuroo and the deftness with which he applied the sauce over the fillets and the rice. He must’ve done that a lot, Morisuke realized. _Childhood friend._

“I’m afraid this is all that’s left,” Kuroo said as he set the bowl in front of Morisuke. 

“Whose room was I using?” Morisuke asked when Kuroo returned to his seat. 

“Hmm? It’s a guest room slash game room. Kenma has an unofficial claim on it, but he’s not here all the time. Other people use it too. Like you! Don’t worry. I change the sheets. Kenma would complain about Bokuto’s stinky feet if I didn’t.” 

“Kenma?” 

“Childhood friend I mentioned earlier. He’s a year younger than me. Say, how old are you?” 

_Again with the questions game._ Since Morisuke couldn’t counter with “It’s rude to ask a lady her age” and Kuroo’s date of birth had been included in the PSB file, he answered wearily, “I’m three months older than you.” 

“Wait, you are? When’s your birthday? Hey, you obviously know mine.” 

Resigned, he said, “August 8.” _1988._

Kuroo snickered. “That’s a lot of eights in your birthday. Maybe I should call you Patsuan.” 

“Who the hell is Patsuan?!” 

“Do you have siblings?” 

Morisuke hesitated. That question had never perturbed him before, and he knew he should roll his eyes at yet another get-to-know-you question, but uncontrollably he thought of his mother still in intensive care. She’d wanted two children, but it’d never happened because of a miscarriage and his father’s early death; she’d never remarried. “No,” he said quietly. 

“Me neither,” Kuroo said, oblivious. “But Kenma’s kind of like my little brother.” 

“Kuroo,” Morisuke said, remembering what he’d wanted to ask the biochemist at the bar. “What do you know about strokes?” 

Kuroo gave him a confused look, but his demeanor shifted. “Just common knowledge. Why?” 

Morisuke’s mouth went dry. “Never mind.” 

Kuroo frowned but didn’t pursue the matter, sitting in silence while Morisuke finished his meal. “You know you’re welcome to stay,” he said after Morisuke put down his chopsticks. “I won’t stop you if you really want to leave, but at least let me walk you to the subway station.” 

“Where is this anyway?” 

“Ikebukuro.” 

Morisuke lived in Shinjuku, which was far but not that far. “That’s okay,” he said. “I’ll stay.” 

The reply surprised both him and Kuroo, but it was late and he’d had a long day. Staying here meant being in the presence of another person, and that would be sufficient to keep his mind from conjuring up incessant nightmare scenarios that he otherwise contained by overworking. 

“Do you want to shower?” Kuroo asked as he gathered the bowls. “I have spare clothes.” 

At the thought of wearing Kuroo’s clothes that would undoubtedly be too big for him, Morisuke whirled toward the door, glad that Kuroo couldn’t have seen his red face from the kitchen sink. “No thanks,” he said, wondering if he sounded calm and collected. Casual. No big deal. 

“What do you want for breakfast?” Kuroo continued before Morisuke could flee the kitchen. He was looking over his shoulder, the faucet running, and Morisuke hated how considerate he was, how unfair everything was. Kuroo was saying, “I don’t have coffee, but I can buy some in the morning. Just tell me what you want. What time do you usually get up?” 

“Can we talk about that in the morning? I’m usually up at seven.” 

“Yeah, okay,” Kuroo answered with a puzzled expression. 

Morisuke marched into the guest room and dived under the covers that smelled not of sugar and spice but of detergent. After he stashed his belongings under the pillow again, he closed his eyes, but he could still picture Kuroo’s sturdy back and the outlines of his shoulder blades. The strong desire to nestle against Kuroo was a comforting distraction but, at the same time, a terrifying downward spiral, one that he had no clue how to break free.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Omake #StinkyFeet
> 
> Bokuto: I wash my feet, Kenma!!!  
> Kenma: They still stink.  
> Bokuto: I wash them with lavender soap!!!!!  
> Kenma: Like I said, they still stink.


	6. Cascade

At 5:58 a.m., Morisuke pressed the home button on one of his phones and buried his face in the pillow for a second before he squinted at the new LINE message.

> [2016/12/16] **Shibayama**  
>  [08:17] happy birthday  
>  [2016/12/17]  
>  [01:40] Thank you, Yaku-san!  
> 

Morisuke made a face. _The hell was he doing up so late._ Consoling himself with the thought that Shibayama had held a birthday party without inviting him (instead of, say, spending the evening with deranged killers in the middle of nowhere Gunma), Morisuke rolled out of bed.

He’d spent a long time tossing and turning before he’d managed to fall asleep last night and a seemingly equal amount of time trying to fall back asleep until he finally gave up just now. His head hurt, and he yearned for a hot towel to press against his eyes, but he wasn’t home and he had a lot of work to do. He grabbed his belongings, nearly tripped over the kotatsu blanket on his way to the door, and paused outside the open door to Kuroo’s bedroom. 

From there, he could see Kuroo sleeping, the latter’s head sandwiched between two pillows and one bare foot sticking out from under the covers that’d slipped partway to the floor. Morisuke looked away, fighting the urge to rearrange the covers for Kuroo, and carefully did not think anything when his gaze fell on scattered papers and a box labeled _Thesis Shit_. 

It was rude to leave like this, though perhaps a part of himself had anticipated this all along. That part despised the remorse bearing down on his chest, despised Kuroo for reversing the blade of his motto “do upon others what they did to you and give back three times more.” This was a debt that he would pay back but need not incur deeper. 

Making up his mind, he put on his shoes and his jacket, unlocked the front door, wincing at the resounding snap, and stepped into the brisk December air that filled the vacuum forming about him. He pulled out his work phone as he closed the door quietly, and tapped on “K.T.” in his contacts list to send a text message. _Thanks for last night_ made it sound like they had a one-night stand. _So long, and thanks for all the fish_ made him sound like a jackass. 

In the end, he typed: _There are some things I have to do this morning._

And then: _Your food was good._

He found the street address marked near the entrance of the apartment building, located it on his memorized map of Tokyo, and strode toward Ikebukuro station after he surveyed his surroundings and the first glow of dawn. At the intersection, he looked back at the deserted one-way street, waiting (maybe) for something to happen (it didn’t), and turned the corner.

  


* * *

  


He went home first to shower and change. That, combined with a fresh cup of coffee, restored his vitality, and he sent an email to M. Moscato before he took the subway to Beika. Since Kai and Kuroo had hounded him about eating properly, he decided, standing outside Cafe Poirot, that he’d show them once and for all that he knew how to take care of himself. 

Mika greeted him automatically when he entered the cafe, but her voice cut off the moment she recognized him. She threw an anxious glance at the other two customers seated by the window and found her smile again despite her agitation. “Uh, table for one?” she asked, clutching a menu. “How about the one over there?” She indicated the table in the far corner. 

Morisuke furrowed his brows and said, “Yeah, perfect.” 

It was a private corner opposite from the other two customers, who appeared to be engaged in a hushed conversation of their own. The one who sat with his back to the entrance had close-cropped brown hair, and the other—Morisuke did a double take, recognizing the person from the news as the police inspector leading the high-profile investigation on Oikawa Tooru. Not a friend, but not a foe either. 

As Morisuke sat down, Mika opened the menu for him and leaned forward as if to suggest particular dishes to a first-time customer. “Suguru asked me to give you this,” she whispered and pulled out a plain envelope from the pocket of her apron. 

While Mika blocked the view of the other two people across the room, Morisuke stuffed the envelope into his jacket and asked, “When did you last see him?” 

“A few days ago. He gave me the envelope about two weeks ago, though. He was sure you’d come here last week. I was getting worried, but he said to wait a bit longer. I’m so glad you have it now. I felt like I was carrying a bomb every day.” 

“Sorry. I’m really sorry,” Morisuke said, mentally launching into a tirade against Daishou for getting a civilian involved all because the selfish bastard didn’t want his girlfriend to break up with him again. It was an argument they’d had when they started working on this case, and Morisuke had relented after Daishou had laid out his (definitely risky) plan to keep Mika safe. On the other hand, Morisuke hated to admit that it’d seemed to be working and had, in fact, become a viable alternative to their established communication channel. _Still._

Morisuke continued, “Did he seem different from usual?” 

Mika frowned and shook her head. “I don’t think so. Well, maybe he was a bit tense, but that might just be because you hadn’t shown up and I was fretting.” 

The bell above the door jingled, and Mika jumped. Turning her head, she said to the new customer, “Welcome! Have a seat anywhere you’d like. I’ll be with you in a moment.” She turned back to Morisuke. “Anything else?” 

“No,” Morisuke said after a pause. “Thank you.” 

Mika pointed at the menu. “What would you like?” 

“Oh, right.” Morisuke skimmed the page in front of him and picked the first item on the list. “The sandwich platter.”

  


* * *

  


His mind was already on the envelope and not his breakfast, which he devoured in minutes. Daishou was alive and kicking—that was a relief. But why did he arbitrarily change couriers? Was the other one compromised? The bar or the bartender? Mika didn’t know anything else, Morisuke learned as he paid for his meal, except this was supposed to be “a one-time thing.” 

Whatever was in the envelope had better be important. 

Morisuke opened it after he got home. Inside the envelope was a ticket holder issued by the New National Theatre, Tokyo. Inside the ticket holder were two tickets to a production named _The Nightingale_ playing in the Opera House and the corresponding receipt. 

Grabbing his UV flashlight from a desk drawer, he shone it on the back of the receipt. It was a primitive tactic often neglected in a digital world, where a cellphone revealed more about its owner than a stack of creased receipts shoved into a folder for accounting and tax purposes. Every message from Daishou had been delivered via invisible ink on the back of a receipt and stashed in a drawer with Morisuke’s own “blank” receipts. Rudimentary, but secure that way. 

There was only one word scribbled in haste on this receipt: ASACA. 

It was an acronym and name that Morisuke knew well, belonging to the artificial intelligence program that his mother had devoted most of the past decade developing. Her brainchild. Why did it come up in this context? 

Morisuke plunked the UV flashlight on his desk and pressed his hands against the surface to stop them from trembling. He breathed. It could be another ASACA. There must be a lot of things in the world that shared the same acronym, just like there were too many things named after Alan Turing as his mother always said. But he stared at the date on the tickets with a strong sense of foreboding: December 31, 2016. 

He fumbled for his chair and opened the browser on his computer. According to the NNTT website, _The Nightingale_ was an opera in three acts by Igor Stravinsky, based on the fairy tale with the same title by Hans Christian Andersen. It couldn’t be a coincidence, but how—? 

Morisuke checked his LINE app. What was it that his mother said? 

_I received two tickets to a Stravinsky opera playing on New Year’s Eve!_

Received. His mother didn’t purchase them. Someone gave them to her. But who? And why? 

Also, what was Daishou trying to do? Did ASACA have something to do with the organization? But that was impossible. Wasn’t it? They knew that the organization had connections in the tech industry, but those connections had been too loose or tangled to follow. This would be a first. If Morisuke had picked up the envelope on time, if his mother hadn’t suffered a stroke... ASACA wasn’t a secret, so Daishou must’ve expected Morisuke to ask his mother about this. 

Morisuke gathered the tickets and decided to make a trip to his mother’s home after his daily visit to the hospital.

  


* * *

  


A child could find out all about ASACA from his mother’s website—except possibly the reason for its name. Few, however, would know about the opera tickets. Him, his mother, the sender, maybe a hacker who targeted their phones. Unless it was an uncanny coincidence, Daishou’s tickets couldn’t be random. Was it a statement saying he must go to the opera regardless? 

Morisuke glowered at “D.S.” in his contacts list and wished he could send an expletive-laden message demanding an explanation from said person, but it would be futile. Ever since Daishou acquired a code name in the organization, they’d agreed to abandon their digital communication channel as a protection measure; Daishou’s PSB phone was with the PSB. 

He would have to crack this from his mother’s side. Somehow. 

Bracing himself for the inevitable heartache that he’d staved off during the repeated hospital visits, Morisuke unlocked the front door to his childhood home. The last time he returned, it was in the spring, two days after his mother’s birthday because of some brainless criminals who’d miscalculated the wrath they’d have to face by choosing the wrong date for their party.

 _Disconnect_ , he told himself. 

But of course, the first things he saw upon entering were the half a dozen airplane slippers that his mother had hoarded from her upgrades to the business class, something that the “real” business class passengers would never do. “Mom,” Morisuke grumbled, rolling his eyes. 

He made a beeline for his mother’s study, trying to ignore the ordered chaos about him, the mess of a sorting algorithm that made sense to his mother and nobody else. But even so, everything leaped into his vision. The R2-D2 model in the middle of the living room, the pair of golden fortune cats next to the coffee machine, two rolls of toilet paper on the coffee table, an unopened bottle of red wine beside a stack of Agatha Christie novels by the couch, a heap of computer science journals on top of the robot vacuum. The study wasn’t any better with its uneven stacks of papers and folders that formed some sort of academic forest. 

Just as Morisuke was about to sigh at the hopeless sight before him, he spotted the opera tickets affixed to the top right corner of the white board, beneath a cat magnet, boxed in with his name and the date written below, next to a doodle of a happy face. It stung. 

He closed his eyes for the duration of an inhale and an exhale, and removed the tickets to compare them with the ones from Daishou. Whoever procured the tickets for his mother had selected the most expensive class, which, according to the seating chart, placed them near the middle on the first floor. Daishou had bought the cheapest tickets, either because he was cheap or because there were no good tickets left. Or maybe because the seats didn’t matter. 

The thought of checking for fingerprints occurred to him, but he dismissed it and tucked both sets of tickets into the ticket holder. He jiggled the mouse of his mother’s computer and muttered “Of course” when the screen lit up with a password prompt. His mother had told him her password algorithm: “Come up with a sentence, take the first letter of every word, shift your fingers one key to the right, capitalize a random letter, and replace another one with a number.” Given her example sentence _I had KFC for dinner the other night_ , it sufficed to say that knowing her algorithm was not equivalent to holding the decryption key. 

He scanned his mother’s desk and found a post-it note with a promising string of characters that turned out to be the password for the wi-fi. He tried it anyway. No good. Frowning, he found himself staring at a black Moleskine notebook lying in front of the printer. He opened it.

> 2016/01/01  
>  The new year just kinda came and left. As in—  
> 

Morisuke shut the notebook so fast that he almost dropped it. His heart pounded. Was this his mother’s diary? His mother kept a diary and he had no idea? How far back did this go?

He really dropped the notebook when the phone in his right pocket vibrated. The caller ID displayed “T.K.” Regaining his composure, he picked up the notebook and answered, “Hey.” 

“I have your results,” Tsukishima said without preamble. 

“Are you working on a Saturday?” 

“Yes, Pot, I’m Kettle. Do you want your results or not?” 

“Sorry. Yes.” 

“Only your prints were identifiable. Barely. Everything else was a smudge.” 

“Figures,” Morisuke muttered. “Sorry this was a waste of time.” 

There was a pause. “Usually people hand out business cards in a specific way. I find it odd that your prints weren’t covering anyone else’s in the corners.” 

“Oh. Right. I know the person who gave me the card. She’s a doctor. She wore gloves.” 

“I see.” Another pause. “No other tests came out positive. This M person isn’t an idiot.” 

“Wouldn’t be fun if he was,” Morisuke mumbled. “Hey, you know anything about Altana?” 

“Nothing you can’t find on the internet.” 

“So no rumors or anything like that?” 

“No.” 

Morisuke glanced at the notebook in his hand and said, “Right. Well, I really appreciate this.” 

Tsukishima acknowledged the gratitude and hung up. 

Morisuke weighed the notebook and checked his personal email with his other phone. M. Moscato had replied to his email about twenty minutes ago.

> Re: Treatment for stroke patients  
>  M <moscato@altana.com>, Dec 17 at 11:07 AM  
>  To: Yaku M <yaku88@qmail.com>
> 
> let’s meet. tomorrow noon? ritz-carlton lobby lounge? my treat. 
> 
> _> Show original message_  
> 

Morisuke scowled. Fucking Ritz-Carlton? In Tokyo Midtown? Who was this scum?

But this involved his mother’s life, so instead of telling M to go suck it, he responded: _Fine._

He put his phone away, his mood sour, and studied the cover of the notebook. Tapping the notebook against his fingers, he paced the floor. Privacy. Information. Respect. Information. Finally, he settled on the couch and promised to skim only the entry on the day his mother received the tickets. He just needed to find out who gave her the tickets. Just that. 

His mother messaged him in the early morning of November 1, a Tuesday, so she should’ve received the tickets on October 31. Halloween? 

Morisuke flipped through the pages, starting from the back, concentrating only on the dates at the top, until he reached the entry on November 1. There was no entry on October 31. 

After some deliberation, he read.

> 2016/11/01  
>  I’m so happy!! Yui passed her quals, my grant proposals are done, and most importantly, Morisuke said he would go to the opera with me!! Masami gave me the tickets yesterday!! What a lovely gift!! I was afraid Morisuke would be busy again, but now I’m so happy!!  
> 

Morisuke closed his eyes and the notebook. There was more below that paragraph, but it was already too much, too painful, and he’d gotten his information. Masami. He brought up his mother’s website on his phone and clicked on the “Research Group” link. Hirota Masami was listed as a graduate student. While he considered his next steps, his work phone buzzed.

> [K.T.]  
>  next time im making veggies for u [thumbs-up]  
> 

Morisuke flung that phone onto the armchair across from him and buried his face in a cushion on the couch. It was a stupid text from a stupid jerk who had absolutely no idea what was going on, so it shouldn’t do this. It shouldn’t be powerful enough to bring down the whole dam that he’d painstakingly built to contain his raw emotions. It shouldn’t, but it did.


	7. Chiyoda/Child

Kuroo’s texts defined the next twenty-four hours, from the first innocuous message that refused to leave his mind to the last misleading statement that fried his brain circuitry. He didn’t recover until the train pulled into Roppongi Station beneath the Ritz-Carlton. Standing on the platform, he replied to Kuroo, who started to sound less like a desperate fool in love and more like a desperate agent in trouble. It was his own fault, really.

> [K.T.]  
>  come over for lunch tmrw?  
>  sunday i mean  
>  ill make u veggies  
>  11:49 PM  
> 
> 
>                     I can’t  
>                      03:31 AM  
> 
> 
> how about dinner?  
>  afternoon tea?  
>  do u have time at all today?  
>  i miss u  
>  07:17 AM  
> 
> 
>                     Fine I’ll stop by around 2  
>                      11:55 AM  
> 

Morisuke set both of his phones on silent and made his way to the Lobby Lounge on the 45th floor of the Ritz-Carlton. On the bright side (not that there existed a bright side when it came to the likes of Kuroo Tetsurou), the high voltage shock had perked him up more than the two cups of coffee earlier, one at 4 a.m. and one at 7 a.m.

A receptionist greeted him at the entrance to the Lobby Lounge. 

“Er,” he said and wondered if M. Moscato had even arrived. “I’m looking for someone.” 

“Oh, are you Yaku Morisuke-sama?” 

“Yes,” he answered, wary of the fact that the other party had anticipated him like this. 

The receptionist inclined her head and showed him into the spacious lounge fitted with a cloud-patterned carpet. Outside the floor-to-ceiling windows lay the northeast sprawl of Tokyo under a blue sky. Cigar smoke wafted over from the bar where a man in a leather jacket was sipping a glass of dark liquor. The receptionist led Morisuke past a foreigner couple and a family of four, to a table for two by the window at the other end of the room. 

The man who Morisuke assumed was M. Moscato smiled at their approach but remained seated. His face, elegant despite the dyed hair and black undercut, belonged to the category that Morisuke labeled Asking For A Sucker Punch. After the receptionist took her leave, he gestured to the armchair across from him and said amiably, “Sit down.” 

Morisuke stood, if only to feel a little taller for a little longer. “How should I address you?” 

Still smiling, the man said, “Miya’s fine.” 

_Miya?_ Taken aback, Morisuke asked, “Is that your actual name?” 

“Is it? If you want, you can call me Mycroft,” he said, his Kansai accent now noticeable. 

“Mycroft? Not Moriarty?” 

“Nah. That’d be the boss.” 

“How would I know you’re not the boss?” 

“Hm, ‘cause you’re not Sherlock.” 

“Then which character am I?” 

“Mary?” 

Morisuke was sure that he was just insulted in ten different ways during the pointless exchange. It seemed equally pointless to demand who this guy really was. If Mycroft Moscato wanted to be known as Miya, Morisuke would play along for now. He took his seat and reluctantly accepted the menu Miya offered, but he tossed it back onto the table when he saw that the first item was some 3500-yen tea. He didn’t come here for that. 

“What exactly does your stroke treatment do?” Morisuke asked. 

He’d heard the basics from his mother’s doctor Miyano Elena, but he wanted the version from “the company representative” Miya. Now that he thought about it, the name “Miya” might have been adapted from “Miyano” as a sick joke. 

“We replace the dead cells with functioning ones,” Miya said as he refilled his cup of tea. “Bring the brain back to life, so to speak.” 

“Neurogenesis” was the term that Dr. Miyano had used. The growth of new neurons. Doctors could treat blood clots or bleeding in the brain, but they could do little about the brain cells that’d died after a stroke. The Altana treatment helped the body repair itself. 

“What are the risks?” 

“Every person is—” Miya interrupted himself when a waiter delivered a three-tier platter of hors d’oeuvres, sandwiches, and pastries to their table. He nudged the platter toward Morisuke, who declined to place an order. “You can have some. Aren’t you hungry?” 

“No,” Morisuke lied and folded his arms. “You were saying?” 

Miya served himself a piece of foie gras mousse and said, “Oh right. Every person is different. We customize each treatment, so if it works, it’s perfect. The problem is, the body will change over time. It’s impossible to predict how. Which means some patients might get the equivalent of a wrong prescription because it takes time to make the drug.” 

“What happens then?” 

“Deeper coma or death.” 

“How many people have you treated?” 

“Three out of seven have recovered. One died. The remaining three are still in coma.” 

The numbers matched what Dr. Miyano had quoted. Cold statistics. She’d also explained the need to cover R&D costs, DNA sequencing, MRI scans, blood tests, and others to derive the personalized drug formula. Morisuke bit his lip as he assessed the anonymous numbers, the unpredictable chances, the disproportionate costs, and placed them on one end of a balance scale that weighed an intangible reference mass. “The bill...” he started. 

“Most people can’t afford it, so we choose the patients as much as they choose us. We lower the cost for some, and we raise it for others because money is not what they lack. As for you...” Miya regarded Morisuke with interest. “We can waive your whole bill.” 

The words sunk in like slow poison seeping into his bloodstream. “And in return?” 

“You give us information.” 

“What?” 

“Information. You’re part of Chiyoda. Your currency is extremely valuable, y’know?” 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Morisuke said, unable to stop the quaver in his voice or the rapid heartbeats that he could sense throughout his body. 

“No? There’s a division under the NPA Security Bureau that coordinates the PSB agents. It goes by several names: the Fourth Division, Sakura, Chiyoda. Also Zero, as it doesn’t officially exist. You’re a member, and you’re assigned a very interesting case right now.” 

Morisuke was shaking. “Listen. I don’t know where you got that crazy idea, but it’s not—” 

“True? I guess if we dig into Yaku Morisuke’s background, we’ll only find out that you’re a civil servant. You could be in postal service for all we know. But what makes you think we don’t have insider info? If you can infiltrate us, we can infiltrate you too.” 

Fear crawled over Morisuke’s skin, a chilled, damp film that coated him, bound him, smothered him. He choked. “What?” 

“Have you never considered that? You must really trust the people you work with.” 

One by one, the faces of those people past and present flashed through his mind. Strong-willed Numai, down-to-earth Kai, sweet Shibayama, quiet Fukunaga, taciturn Kuguri, slimy Daishou who possessed a subtle sort of devotion, and—of course—obnoxious Kuroo who was nothing short of impossible. Morisuke’s voice cracked, sounding distant when he retorted, “Why should I believe you?” 

“You shouldn’t. But you’ve just confirmed you’re part of Chiyoda. So what’s it gonna be? Yaku Chizuru’s recovery? Debt? Or nothing at all? You do have the choice to walk away.” 

Furious, Morisuke leaped to his feet and slammed his hands on the table. He was pissed at Miya for using his mother as a leverage, and he was pissed at Miya for holding out a hand to stop the platter from toppling instead of recoiling from his rage. But mostly, he was pissed at himself for falling into such an obvious trap. 

“If you think you can use financial debt to scare me, you’re barking up the wrong tree,” Morisuke snarled. “I can pay your damn bill in cash if I really tried.” 

“I know,” Miya said with a cordial smile. “A medical bill is nothing when it’s just money. But do you know what a medical bill becomes when love itself is the creditor?” 

_Ignore the bait_ , Morisuke warned himself, clenching his teeth. _That question makes no fucking sense._ “I’m done here,” he spat and stomped out of the lounge.

  


* * *

  


Morisuke walked, letting his legs take him out the building, down the bustling sidewalks, to nowhere in particular until he stopped in front of a pond in the nearby Hinokicho Park. Couples and families with small children filled the grounds with an air of tranquility and normality that he’d forgotten. He looked up at the sky, at the endless blue that everyone took for granted, and breathed. 

There was no reason to believe Miya. If they’d really infiltrated the NPA, why would he reveal that and risk the NPA capturing the moles? Besides, why would he try to recruit Morisuke if there was already a mole who (apparently) had access to Chiyoda intel? On the other hand, he had much to gain and little to lose by feeding a lie to the entire division to generate doubt and suspicion among the agents when there should be none. 

_I’m so stupid._ Morisuke smacked his cheeks. He’d trained for this, for the situation where the opponent attempted to outwit him. Yet Miya had rattled him like he was a baby’s toy. He was so fucking stupid. 

His stomach growled, and he wanted to cry out in agony. He was stupid _and_ starving. How pathetic could he get? He checked the time: 12:46 p.m. Either he could burn money at an overpriced restaurant in Roppongi and wallow in self-pity, or he could bum a free lunch off Kuroo and deal with someone else’s stupid problem. He set off for Ikebukuro.

  


* * *

  


Half an hour later, he knocked on Kuroo’s door. He heard a murmur of voices and hoped he didn’t arrive at a bad time since he didn’t update Kuroo on when he would be here. It frightened him a little, the reason why he didn’t do that. 

The door opened, and Kuroo frowned at him. “You’re early.” 

“Sorry, I—” 

“Come in, come in!” 

Kuroo stepped aside, holding the door wide open, and then reached for Morisuke with a sense of urgency. Morisuke yelped, but Kuroo ignored his protests and ushered him into the living room, where there stood another man and a child. Morisuke stopped wriggling, momentarily distracted by the phantom touch of coolness on his shoulders when Kuroo removed his hands. The room smelled of pizza. 

“That’s Akaashi Keiji, one of the TMPD medical examiners,” Kuroo introduced, indicating the man. Then he pointed at the child hiding behind Akaashi. “And that’s Bokuto Koutarou. He’s the problem. I’d say he’s a big problem, except the problem is he’s small.” 

The child named Bokuto jumped out from behind Akaashi and pushed back the owl-face knit cap that had slipped down over his eyes. “Fuck off, Kuroo. You’re the problem.” 

Morisuke gaped at the child. He was no stranger to cussing, but he didn’t expect a kid in elementary school to drop the f-bomb. There was also something about this Bokuto that struck him as familiar but wrong, which was a thought so bizarre that it disturbed him. 

Akaashi chided, “Bokuto-san, please watch your language. You’re not an adult anymore.” Catching sight of Morisuke’s bewilderment, he said, “We need your help, Yaku-san. We’ll explain everything, but perhaps you should sit down first.” 

“Yeah, sit down,” Kuroo echoed and started moving toward the couch. “Did you eat yet? You sounded like you had a lunch date, so I didn’t cook. You can have some pizza if you want. We have a lot left because Bokuto totally overestimated how much he could eat.” 

Bokuto whined, “It’s not my fault a kid’s stomach is so small.” 

“Pizza’s fine,” Morisuke said, disappointed but not interested in clarifying that his lunch date was a demoralizing affair and a disastrous business negotiation with the enemy. 

He watched as Kuroo cleared an empty pizza box and a used plate from the coffee table. There were three seats and four people; Kuroo ensconced himself on one end of the couch while a plastic cup next to another used plate marked an occupied seat on the other end. 

“Bokuto’s already done, so you can take his seat,” Kuroo said and nodded to the seat in the middle as if he read Morisuke’s concern. “Feel free to help yourself to whatever,” he added, referring to the food and drink on the table. 

“Hey hey, Akaashi, can I sit on your lap?” 

“No, Bokuto-san. You were mopping the floor earlier. Why don’t you continue doing that?” 

“Akaaaashi! I was not mopping the floor! I was on the floor because I was bored!” 

“Uh, there’s space,” Morisuke said, scooting over, and accidentally bumped into Kuroo, who glanced sidelong at him. 

“Oi, Bokuto, Yaku was nice enough to make room for you, so quit whining and come sit.” 

“At least somebody’s nice,” Bokuto exclaimed and climbed onto the couch. 

Morisuke shifted away from Kuroo, not because he really wanted to but because he felt obligated to (although an inch was minuscule given the amount of space to his left). He didn’t want the fidgety Bokuto to kick him, his ego tried to explain to his super-ego while he busied himself with a slice of pizza to satiate the hunger that was confusing his id. 

“So why do you need my help?” Morisuke asked after he swallowed a bite. 

Akaashi showed Morisuke a police ID badge issued to Inspector Bokuto Koutarou of the TMPD Criminal Investigation Bureau Division 3, the officer Morisuke recognized as the twerp who’d wrongfully arrested him last summer. “I believe you have met Bokuto-san previously,” said Akaashi. “He is supposed to be thirty years old, but a mysterious drug has reversed his age. I estimate his present physical age to be around eight or nine.” 

“Akaashiiii, you rounded up my age again! I’m twenty-nine. Twenty-nine!” 

Morisuke stared at Akaashi, then at the child and Bokuto’s photo, and finally at Kuroo. “Is this a joke? Because it’s not very funny. I’m really not in the mood for crap today.” 

“It’s not a joke, I swear,” Kuroo said with his mouth full, plain candor and desperation evident in his eyes and voice nevertheless. Akaashi concurred. 

Turning back to Bokuto, Morisuke compared the child’s face with the photo. The knit cap constantly sliding down the child’s forehead hid the hair, but the resemblance was there. The child’s face was chubbier, eyebrows thinner, and overall proportions a bit different, but if someone had told Morisuke that the child was Bokuto’s son, he would’ve believed it.

They were telling him that this was the same person shrunk? 

“Wha—? How? This isn’t Alice in Wonderland. How is this possible?” 

“I’m afraid I do not understand the physiological process either,” Akaashi replied. “The drug appeared to have left his memories intact, so that is a potential clue. Suffice to say, this is an undocumented side effect that perhaps not even the drug developers appreciate as the people who administered the drug had intended to use it as a lethal poison.” 

“The people who... Hang on. What people? What poison? What happened?” 

“This was what happened. Bokuto-san and I visited Tropical Land yesterday,” Akaashi said, naming the amusement park in Beika. “Bokuto-san wandered off at around five. Later I learned that he’d witnessed a ransom payment for a memory stick in the grassy area behind the Big O Ferris Wheel. The exchange occurred between two organized crime groups. The extorted party was engaged in arms trafficking, but we cannot be certain about the other one. An accomplice discovered Bokuto-san and struck him from behind.” 

“He didn’t completely knock me out!” Bokuto interrupted. “He said don’t leave evidence blah blah new poison blah blah organization testing. Then I felt, like, this crazy heat and pain and passed out. Then I woke up all weird and went looking for Akaashi.” 

Morisuke tensed. _Organization?_ Immortality research. Anti-aging effects. Age reversal. 

“He fed a pill to Bokuto-san,” Akaashi continued. “I gathered it was supposed to be an undetectable poison this group developed to kill. It’s the bane of us medical examiners.” 

Kuroo nudged Morisuke with his elbow. “Think it’s our crackpot organization?” 

Searching for words, Morisuke shook his head out of disbelief. “I... This... Akaashi-san, how did you know to contact Kuroo to contact me?” 

“I presumed Kuroo-san had been transferred to the PSB,” said Akaashi. “We knew he was transferred to another division, but it was never officially announced to which division. Given that Haiba-kun was transferred from the PSB, I put two and two together. I knew this was a matter for the PSB, but I didn’t know whom to contact. Since Kuroo-san is Bokuto-san’s best friend, I figured I could trust him. To be honest, it was a lucky guess.” 

Kuroo said, “Even if it’s not our crackpot organization, you’re the only one I know who can do something about this. There are people who want Bokuto dead. If they find out Bokuto is alive—or worse, they find out that he _shrunk_ , they’re gonna be after him.” 

“Never mind that,” Bokuto said, bouncing his legs. “Being stuck in a kid’s body sucks. Can you find the antidote for me? I want to turn back.” 

“You sure about that?” Kuroo asked with a lopsided grin. “You know how many people have died searching for eternal youth? Now that you have it, you should treasure it.” 

“This is not eternal youth! This is eternal inconvenience! I can’t do anything! Akaashi’s like, you’re a child now. You can’t spike your hair. You can’t drink beer. You can’t do this. You can’t do that. I want my fucking freedom, man! That includes the freedom to fuck!” 

There was a long, farcical silence. Akaashi sighed, and Kuroo muttered, “That was TMI.” Bokuto yanked the knit cap down to cover his crimson face and curled up on the couch. 

“Um,” said Morisuke. “Okay, so. We need to protect Bokuto and find the antidote. Right?” 

“Yeah, but how’re we gonna do that?” Kuroo asked after a beat. “Fake his death?” 

“Who else knows about this?” 

“Only the people in this room,” said Akaashi. 

Morisuke leaned back against the couch and closed his eyes to revisit Akaashi’s account. The grassy area behind the Big O Ferris Wheel was relatively secluded and surrounded by hedges. Sunset was around 4:30 p.m. so the exchange must’ve happened at nightfall. 

“Bokuto,” he said and waited for the shrunk officer to look up. “Did you see their faces?” 

“Who? Oh, the dudes? Not really. It was kinda dark. I mean, the ferris wheel lights were on, but that was up in the sky, so it was still kinda dark. I mostly just heard them talk.” 

“Did they have any accents or speak in strange ways or mention any names?” 

“Sounded like normal Japanese to me. And, uh, one called the other one ‘aniki.’ I think.” 

_Aniki_ was a generic term for elders and superiors, common in all organized crime groups and hence insufficient for identification. Security cameras wouldn’t have caught anything incriminating either as they’d chosen the meeting point and dared to leave a body there. 

“Okay, here’s the thing,” Morisuke said. “If you couldn’t see them well in that lighting, they probably couldn’t see you well either. I assume you weren’t in uniform. Did they take your phone or your wallet? Could they have discovered your identity in any way?” 

“Oh,” said Bokuto. “They didn’t take anything. I don’t think they searched my pockets.” 

“Good, but here’s the problem. If you had really died, it would have made big news. Tropical Land is a giant amusement park, not an abandoned warehouse. No matter how secluded that area is, your body would have been discovered by now. The TMPD will be involved, and all sorts of things will follow. If they’re waiting for this to happen to confirm your death, then... I don’t know. I think the best we can do for now is to make everyone around you think you’re missing, possibly dead. That includes your friends and family. You need to vanish. Kuroo and I will try to find out what this drug is. If nobody knows that this drug can shrink people, I doubt there’s an antidote just sitting around. It... I...” 

Akaashi said, “I might be able to do something if you obtain the formula for the drug.” 

Bokuto flung his arms around Akaashi. “You’re the best!” 

“Alright, that works,” Morisuke muttered. His mind raced, checking for flaws in his logic, inadequacies in his suggestion, and found nothing. “Okay, it sounds like we have a plan.” 

Akaashi rose to his feet and said, “I’ll take care of Bokuto-san and make sure he stays hidden. I’ll leave the drug to you and Kuroo-san. I appreciate this. If there is nothing else, we shall be heading back now. Bokuto-san, let’s go.” 

They exchanged pleasantries, and Kuroo accompanied the two to the front door. Morisuke picked up his half-eaten slice of pizza that had become cold. As he chewed, he pinched his arm and grimaced at the jolt of pain, dejected that this surreal nightmare of a day was in fact reality. Or was it? Wasn’t there some speculation about how their “reality” was really a Matrix-style simulation? A ludicrous idea, but attractive in the sense that it flipped yin and yang, professing to face the real reality when it was a mere act of running away. 

Kuroo returned, and they looked at each other.


	8. Communication

Morisuke didn’t know what he expected to hear, but it wasn’t what Kuroo said. 

“You didn’t eat lunch today, did you?” 

Prickling at the accusatory tone, Morisuke averted his gaze and slowly resumed chewing. He could deny it (and lie _I did_ ), or dismiss it ( _none of your business_ ), or dispute it ( _I’m eating right now, aren’t I_ ), but the response that escaped his lips was a weak and defensive “So?” 

Kuroo let out a frustrated sigh and flopped down on the couch. The abrupt motion caused Morisuke to sink toward Kuroo, and he glanced up, their knees touching. Kuroo was looking sullenly at a spot away from Morisuke with his arms crossed. Morisuke knitted his brows. 

What was wrong with this guy? He was fine a minute ago. Was he sulking? But why? Because Morisuke was eating too much of his pizza? Or was he mad? At whom? Morisuke? That was absurd. He should be grateful that Morisuke wasn’t mad at _him_ for sending the obscene message “i miss u.” Which reminded Morisuke that they needed to set the boundary—carve a distinct line in concrete—between acceptable and unacceptable code phrases. But that would have to wait until they discussed the immediate problem of how to locate an unknown drug. Oh, maybe he was upset about what’d happened to his best friend. Morisuke would be too. 

He ate the last two slices of pizza, wiped his fingers on a napkin, and drank some water. Acutely aware of the unchanging warmth against his knee, he turned to Kuroo, resolved to stay in control despite the flicker of uncertainty that emerged under the other’s stern gaze. 

“So what should we do about—” 

“Did you sleep last night? Do you even know what sleep means?” 

_What?_

“Yaku, you looked like shit on Friday. You look even more like shit today. What gives?” 

“I’m not—what the hell? Why do you care?” 

“Why do I care? Let me tell you why I care. My best friend’s life is on the line, and I’m terrified. Absolutely terrified. I need my commander to be able to do his job and not collapse halfway through because I’m not equipped to deal with insane criminals.” 

“What the fuck, Kuroo. Did you black out the last thirty minutes? I’m perfectly capable—” 

“That was my professional answer. Here’s my personal one. Do I really need a reason to care? I opened that door for you earlier, and I felt a punch to my guts, seeing you like that. You looked like you were ready to break, Yaku, and I have no idea why. I had to help Bokuto, otherwise all I wanted to do was make you a bowl of porridge and tuck you into bed.” 

Morisuke sucked in a sharp breath. The alternate world painted in the stained glass shattered the moment he caught a glimpse of it. The world where his mother was still smiling and well, where there were no drugs to take lives or give them, where words meant what they meant on the surface. “Why are you like this?” he asked Kuroo while he struggled to stay composed. “Do you not realize what it does to people? What it does to—I’m... This... Do you not know that I have no idea how—that it’s impossible for me to pay you back if you keep doing this?” 

“What? I’m not asking you to pay me back. You don’t owe me anything. I told you yesterday. The day before. Whatever. I don’t want anything from you. Why can’t you just accept that? Why is it so hard for you to take it as it is? Not everybody wants something in return, okay?” 

And then it was too much to bear, the jarring contrast with the exchange an hour ago where his mother and his loyalty were nothing other than currencies that could be bought and sold. It dawned on him that no love was unconditional, that Miya’s question was neither rhetorical nor philosophical. Love is the most powerful creditor in human society, capable of launching men to the apex of happiness, but it is also the most deceptive. It lends; it doesn’t collect. 

It leaves that job to death. 

Miya never truly offered him a choice. If he walked away (now, after learning the difference he could’ve made), he would be giving up on his mother’s life. If he agreed to the treatment (now, after learning the price he had to pay), he would be gambling with his mother’s life. 

Both placed her at the whim of the grim reaper, but his hands would be the ones stained. 

“Shit,” Kuroo said when Morisuke buried his head in his hands and broke into sobs. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—oh my god, come here. What’s going on? What’s wrong? Okay, never mind. Just let it out first. Shit, I’m really sorry.” He wrapped his arms around Morisuke, tightening his hold when Morisuke tried to elbow him and pull away. 

There was no force behind his own actions, Morisuke knew. Embarrassment was reduced to ashes by the realization that the day death came to collect its dues, he would be paying not just in grief but also in guilt. The more unconditional love appeared to be, the more despair its end would bring. So he hated everything Kuroo was doing, hated how much he craved it. 

Breath shuddering, he buried his face in Kuroo’s shoulder and grasped the fabric of the sweater that carried the faint, comforting scent of sugar and spice. Kuroo stroked his hair, his arm, his back, enfolding him in warmth that he hadn’t experienced in a long time. Gradually he pulled himself together. He reached for a napkin, blew his nose, and returned to where he was, this time wrapping his arms around Kuroo’s waist while the other continued to hold him close. The gesture implied nothing, he told himself. Reminded himself. From either him or _him_. 

Nothing. 

“Want to talk about it?” Kuroo asked in a tentative voice. When Morisuke didn’t reply, he said, “I mean, I doubt I made you cry just because I tried to lecture you. I said something that triggered this, didn’t I? What is it? Can you tell me?” Another pause. “Or if it’s too personal, can you tell it to someone else? Right now I feel like you’re dealing with it all by yourself.” 

Morisuke sighed in defeat. None of his former cases had involved himself on a personal level, and the classified nature of his work prevented him from discussing it with most people when it got difficult. He hadn’t wanted to drag Kuroo too deep into this case, but Bokuto’s condition meant that Kuroo now had a personal stake in this as much as he did. 

“It’s my mom,” he said and filled Kuroo in on his mother’s stroke, the Altana treatment, and Miya’s demand for information, careful not to mention the unlikely possibility that there might be a double agent among them. “I think Miya’s code name is Moscato,” he added. “But I have no evidence that he’s a member. Likewise, I have no evidence that Altana has anything to do with the organization. Argh, I was really stupid to walk off like that, but I was so mad.” 

Kuroo gave him a squeeze that sent a strange sensation across his stomach, and he forgot to breathe for a few heartbeats. “Hey, we can’t solve everything in one day,” said Kuroo. “But I don’t understand. How did he know you work for the PSB? It’s not like he’s Akaashi.” 

A nervous chuckle left Morisuke’s throat. Trust Kuroo to pick up on the one piece of missing information. As he debated how to draw Kuroo’s attention away from the thorny complication, he discovered an unexpected link. “ASACA.” 

“Asaka? Who’s that?” 

“No, not a person. A-S-A-C-A. It’s the AI program my mom’s working on.” 

“Your mother’s an AI researcher?” 

“Yeah. At Beika University.” 

“Wow, that’s cool. What does her program do?” 

“She’s trying to build an artificial human brain. She came up with an algorithm to complement the neural network approach that a lot of other AI programs use, like AlphaGo. ASACA is less of a black box and doesn’t require as much data to train.” 

“Huh. What does ASACA stand for?” 

“It doesn’t stand for anything. Well, it does but only as a joke. A Super Awesome Computer Algorithm. That’s what my mom tells pigheaded people who ask that question.” Morisuke felt Kuroo’s chest vibrate with quiet laughter, and he smiled. “It’s actually taken from the name Asaka,” he continued even though he didn’t know why he wanted to explain this. “ _Asa_ as in _morning_ , _ka_ as in _fragrance_. My mom replaced _k_ with _c_ because it’s a name for a computer. Apparently she came up with two names before I was born. ‘Asaka’ was the one for a girl.” 

“And ‘Morisuke’ for the one who was actually born.” 

His heart skipped a beat when he heard his name uttered above his head, in a soft voice laced with something akin to affection. “Yeah,” he said, almost whispered, closing his eyes in an attempt to slow down his heart rate and commit to memory the way Kuroo’s thumb was rubbing his arm. If he surrendered himself, he thought, maybe he would float instead of sink in this emotional quicksand that he had fallen into. 

“So what does ASACA have to do with anything?” 

Morisuke blinked hard several times before he remembered what they were talking about. “Oh. To be honest, I’m not sure either. The latest intel contained only the word ASACA and not any context. I don’t think my mom worked for the organization, but it’s conceivable that she might’ve interacted with some of its members if they’re in academia.” 

“And you think they might’ve learned about you that way?” 

“Maybe. I don’t know.” 

It wasn’t impossible. His mother knew he worked in law enforcement, although she thought it referred to the regular police force. Maybe Miya just got lucky with his guess too, the bastard. 

“Well, it’s Sunday afternoon,” said Kuroo. “There’s not much else we can do right now, so why don’t you take a break? Hm?” Morisuke started to protest, so he added with a smirk, “Unless you want to give that Miya ass a call and invite him to tea? That reminds me. I should ask Kenma to come over and play video games. That should stop you from working.” 

Appalled, Morisuke snatched at the phone, but Kuroo raised it over his head, grinning, while his other hand pressed Morisuke to his torso to hold him down. 

“What if he’s busy?” Morisuke hissed. 

“On a Sunday? This is Kenma, not you, Yakkun. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s still in bed. Alright, message sent.” 

“Then let him sleep!” 

“Nah. He comes here every Sunday for dinner anyway. Doesn’t matter when he comes over. Or did you not want someone to interrupt us?” 

“There is nothing to interrupt!” Morisuke yanked on Kuroo’s sweater, flustered. The exasperating Kuroo was back, and he couldn’t tell if it was a blessing or a curse. 

“Hmm...” Kuroo gave Morisuke a sly look, but his phone buzzed before he could say anything. He glanced at the new message. “Alas, Kenma is awake, and he’ll be here in ten minutes.” 

“Ten minutes? That’s so fast.” 

“He lives five minutes down the street, so it’s actually pretty slow. Now then.” Kuroo put his phone away and leaned down to Morisuke’s face but paused before their noses could touch. “What should we do for ten minutes?” he purred. 

Twisting a fistful of Kuroo’s sweater, Morisuke stared into Kuroo’s eyes, seeing the eyelashes, the varying shades of brown of the iris, the wet glass of the cornea—and then he wasn’t just seeing the other person anymore but seeing the other person seeing him. He could feel their breaths mingle, he could feel the patterns that Kuroo’s fingers were tracing on his waist, and he could feel everything dissolve into a primal urge that drove him crazy, so he threw every last bit of rationality out of his mind and closed the gap between their lips. 

The first person Morisuke kissed was a girl he never saw again after high school graduation. They bumped their noses against each other before they glued their lips together in an awkward imitation of what they thought a kiss should be, and never gave it another try afterwards. The second person he kissed was someone he dated briefly in college. Their kiss was less awkward but sloppy, an action performed mechanically rather than emotionally. It wasn’t until Nishinoya that he learned how kissing could be enjoyable and how it could become too much when the relationship began to resemble a summer typhoon hitting Tokyo. 

Kissing Kuroo was an exploration, a fascination, a mutual addiction. Every caress exchanged completed the sense of self, every breath shared filled the void with life. For the first time since his arrival in this world, he looked at the sun that outshone everything in his sky and realized that there could be no more room for anything else but that brilliant light. 

They broke apart to catch their breaths. Then Morisuke pulled Kuroo down for another round (and another round...) of liplock and intoxication. His body was burning, a new fire starting wherever Kuroo’s hands touched, gripped, massaged under his jacket, and he tugged on Kuroo’s hair every time a sensitive spot on his torso sent a jolt that reached his fingertips. 

Someone pushed open the front door, and Morisuke ripped himself away from Kuroo. He placed his head in his hands as he tried to steady his breathing and clear his mental haze. _Shit._ He’d thought there’d be a knock or something to give them a moment to recover, but the figure removing his shoes in the foyer clearly treated Kuroo’s apartment as his own. 

“Sup, Kenma,” Kuroo greeted, a little breathlessly, and withdrew his arms from Morisuke, who took the opportunity to straighten his shirt and thin jacket. “What’ve you been up to today?” 

“Nothing,” Kenma replied as he entered the living room, busy with his phone. 

“This is Yaku, by the way.” 

“I figured.” Kenma lifted his gaze for a split second and nodded to Morisuke. In response, Morisuke gave a small wave since he didn’t trust his vocal cords yet. “What game do you want to play?” Kenma asked, making his way to the guest room/game room. 

“I don’t know. What game do _you_ want to play, Yaku?” 

Morisuke grimaced at the question, which sounded like a double entendre to him despite the proper context and Kuroo’s innocent tone. “I don’t care,” he managed to say. 

“Kenma, you decide,” Kuroo called out and tapped Morisuke’s shoulder. “Come on.” 

By the time Morisuke seated himself on a cushion at the kotatsu, Kenma had already started up a PS3 fighting game. Morisuke selected a ninja character at random, and minutes later, he was swearing at Kuroo for interfering with his battles while Kenma kicked both of their asses. Kenma, he learned, was a game developer (“and super haxxor,” said Kuroo, whereupon Kenma narrowed his eyes in distaste and proceeded to knock out Kuroo’s player character). After meeting the loud and dynamic best friend, Morisuke was surprised to find the childhood friend so reserved, apathetic even. It suddenly roused his curiosity about Kuroo as a person. 

“Did Kuroo just barge into your life and refuse to leave?” he asked Kenma. 

“Yeah,” said Kenma. 

“Hey!” Kuroo protested. “You make it sound like I’m not welcome there.” 

“I don’t know why I’m still friends with you after what you did to my dinner.” 

“It was an honest mistake! How many times do I have to apologize for it?” 

“What did he do?” asked Morisuke. 

“He dumped a bucket of salt into my soup.” 

“Let me remind you that you still eat my cooking, Kenma. Also, I was thirteen. That was my first time cooking anything. I just confused teaspoon and tablespoon.” 

“He did a lot of dumb things when he was a kid,” Kenma told Morisuke in a disinterested tone. “He went to school with his fly open once.” 

“Kenma, I thought we were friends.” 

“He also farted for the whole class to hear during an exam.” 

“Wait, how do you know about that?” Kuroo cried out, his face bright red. 

“He accidentally dumped the whole bag of fish food into my grandmother’s fish tank once.” 

“That was you, Kenma.” 

“No, that was you.” 

“Okay, this isn’t fair. I want to hear Yakkun’s embarrassing stories too.” 

“What?” Morisuke nearly spluttered, caught off guard as if Kuroo had aimed a fire hose at him and blasted away his amusement at the other’s expense. 

“You heard so many of mine already. I want to hear yours.” 

“I don’t have embarrassing stories.” 

“Everyone has embarrassing stories. I bet you have a lot of drunk, embarrassing stories.” 

“I do not!” 

“One day, I’m gonna find your wingman, and I’m gonna make him tell me all your stories.” 

“I don’t have a wingman.” 

“Then I’ll just have to find all your weaknesses myself and exploit them.” 

“I don’t have weaknesses,” Morisuke declared, juvenile as it sounded. 

“Come on, Yakkun. Just share one story. Any story.” 

He glared at Kuroo, but Kuroo was wearing that smile again, the smile that dismantled his entire defense system. Made him want to kiss him again. “You’re infuriating,” he muttered. “Okay, fine. I kicked a guy out of an elevator once.” 

“You what?” 

“I kicked some random guy out of the elevator because he wanted to go to the second floor but I was going to the twelfth. The stairs were right next to the elevator. Lazy ass.” 

“Damn, that’s badass. Hey, Kenma, I have some badass stories too, right?” 

“No,” said Kenma. 

“Back me up here! How about the time I saved you from a giant dog when you were seven?” 

“I don’t remember that.” 

“That’s it. No dinner for you two.” 

“I want fried rice,” Kenma said, as if Kuroo had just asked them what they wanted for dinner. 

“Again? You had that last week.” Kuroo sighed after a pause. “Fried rice okay for you, Yaku? I’ll make you some veggies on the side.” 

Morisuke met Kuroo’s inquiring gaze, forgetting to make the snide remark _what happened to “no dinner for you two”_ and forgetting about the game console in his hands. It was obvious in hindsight, what had been there all along. What he had refused to admit and accept. Kuroo was like this with everyone. No different from the weed they instinctively wanted to eradicate until they gave up, looked up, and discovered that they stood in an open field of dandelions. 

“Yakkun, I know I’m handsome and all that, but you don’t have to look at me like that.” 

Cheeks heating up, Morisuke huffed and turned his attention back to the TV screen, where his player character had just suffered the final blow and lost all remaining hit points. 

“Yaku, you didn’t answer my question.” 

“What question?” 

“Is fried rice okay?” 

“Yeah, fine.” 

“Alright, I’m gonna go cook. You two behave.” Kuroo extracted himself from the kotatsu and, in squeezing past Morisuke to reach the door, grabbed Morisuke’s side. 

“What the fuck!” Morisuke jerked away and swatted at the offending hand. 

Kuroo cackled, springing out of the room. “Just checking if you’re ticklish!” 

“Fucker,” Morisuke swore under his breath while his heart raced at a speed that put Usain Bolt to shame. That dickhead just wanted to grope, didn’t he? So why did that make Morisuke feel—

“Yaku-kun,” Kenma said as he set up a new game. “Please don’t throw the console.” 

“Sorry,” Morisuke said, contrite, and picked up the device he’d dropped because of Kuroo. “How do you put up with him?” 

“I don’t,” said Kenma. “You’re the one putting up with him.”

  


* * *

  


The conversation afterwards moved away from the subject of Kuroo Tetsurou and stayed on the surface of video games, sports, and TV shows throughout dinner. The veggies were fine, Morisuke replied when Kuroo asked. (“I guess that’s the highest praise I can get.”) He knew, however, that his stomach had already betrayed him and joined the other camp. If that was all it took to conquer him, Kuroo had succeeded—but it wasn’t. He hadn’t lost the war yet. 

Fatigue caught up with him by the end of dinner, and his eyelids drooped while Kuroo stowed the cleaned dishes. 

“You want to stay the night again, Yaku?” 

Morisuke’s eyes snapped open. “Huh? What? No. Why would I want to do that?” 

“You were nodding off already.” 

“I’m awake,” he said, sitting taller, and stretched his back to feel more alert. 

“Where do you live?” 

“Shinjuku. Why?” 

Kuroo sighed. “Well, if you’re planning to head back, you should probably leave now. And go straight to bed once you get home. No working. You can do that tomorrow.” 

“Yeah, yeah.” Morisuke stood up and trudged to the foyer, muttering, “I’m too tired anyway.” Which was true. He’d been awake since 3 a.m., and this insanity of a day had felt like a week. 

“I’ll walk you to the station,” said Kuroo. Morisuke opened his mouth to complain but shut it when he remembered that they had yet to discuss a critical issue, so he waited by the door. “You heading back too?” Kuroo asked Kenma, who murmured a “Yeah” from the dining table. 

The outside temperature had dropped after sunset, the chilly wind serving as a stimulant for his otherwise sluggish brain. Morisuke zipped up his jacket as he stepped out onto the street, and shoved his hands into his pockets. He said bye to Kenma and walked with Kuroo in the opposite direction, neither of them speaking for a block. 

“What should we do about Bokuto?” Morisuke asked, suppressing the part of himself that was unnecessarily disappointed by the lack of physical contact between him and Kuroo. 

“Yeah, I was thinking about that too,” said Kuroo. “We don’t have much to go on. I was going to start with this Rum person. Another way to look at immortality is eternal youth, y’know?” 

“But that drug was supposed to kill. Would someone interested in immortality do that?” 

“What if it was supposed to grant eternal youth but was, I don’t know, somehow too toxic? There’s really no difference between panacea and poison if you stop and think about it.” 

“Oh,” said Morisuke. “That’s an interesting perspective.” 

“Akaashi and I also decided we’d try digging through the literature. Not just for the content, but also the authors, affiliations, even acknowledgements. It’s hard for fringe research to get funding from the government, so we might come across some dubious sources of money. Assuming they’re listed. Which they might not be if they’re shady enough.” 

“Funding,” Morisuke repeated, mostly to himself. “Yeah. Follow the money. Of course.” 

“Thought of something?” 

“Maybe. I just got an idea.” 

“Well,” Kuroo said as they arrived at the ticket gates to the train tracks. “Don’t go running off to investigate. Go home and go to bed, you hear me?” 

“Yeah, alright, fine.” 

They looked at each other. 

“Uh...” Kuroo scratched his head. “I’ll text you... I guess?” 

Morisuke rolled his eyes. “Yeah,” he said and added, “Just not too soon.” Then, before he could regret it, he tapped his Suica card on the card reader and passed through the gate. He paused at the bottom of the staircase, glanced back to find Kuroo still standing in the same spot, frowned when his chest tightened, and climbed the steps two at a time to the platform.


	9. Chanson

That night, Morisuke slept for ten hours. Not continuously, but not horribly either. His neighbor upstairs was stomping around at some point in the middle of the night, but he drifted off again without opening his eyes. The next time he awoke, it was almost 7 a.m. He kicked his blanket aside and stared at the sunlight streaming through the curtains as if it could rid his mind of the afterimage if not the exhaustion from the dream that’d accompanied him to consciousness. In the dream, he was running through an unfamiliar city with bloodhounds on his trail, searching for someone he knew. But who, he couldn’t remember. 

So why was he thinking about Kuroo? 

_Ugh, I slept too much,_ he concluded and got out of bed. 

As he went about his morning routine, however, he caught himself thinking about Kuroo again and again. When he was brushing his teeth—was Kuroo’s toothbrush the red one or the yellow one? When he was buttering his toast—was Kuroo eating breakfast too? What did he usually eat? Then when he was rinsing his coffee pot, the memory of Kuroo at the counter merged with the passion of their kiss into a fantasy of making out in the kitchen. 

This was getting ridiculous. He was _not_ a lovesick fool. 

Angry at his body for reacting to the atrocious imagination of his mind, he tuned in to NHK Radio 1 on his phone and listened to Not Kuroo discuss life in Singapore before the program switched to the traffic report. He continued to listen to the news on the train ride to Kasumigaseki Station, but in his ears, every word enunciated reverted to its primitive form, a vocal sound stripped of meaning. Only the report on a controversial piece of health legislation registered in his brain, reminding him to dig into Altana’s finances when he arrived at work. 

“Morning,” he greeted as he strode into his office. 

“Good morning,” Kai replied. After Morisuke sat down, he said, “I have a question for you.” 

“Yeah? What?” 

“What is a song for ASACA?” 

Morisuke froze halfway through keying in the password for his computer. He fixed his eyes on Kai. “What?” 

Kai picked up a chalk and wrote on the blackboard behind him: _a_song_for_asaca.tar.gz_. “Do you know what this might be?” he asked, his tone genuinely puzzled. 

“Uh... That looks like a filename...” 

“Yes, I’m aware. However, the filename is all I have. I was hoping you would know what it is.” 

“Well, I don’t. What makes you ask?” 

“This weekend we detained a fellow named Shachi for illegal firearm possession. Apparently he also traded a memory stick for ten million yen at Tropical Land. This was the file on that memory stick. He claimed he was just a courier, so he didn’t know where it came from or what it was supposed to do. It sounded like the file was encrypted as well.” 

“Tropical Land? When did this happen?” 

“When did what happen?” 

“The trade at Tropical Land.” 

“I didn’t ask, but he was in the park on Saturday from four-thirty to five-thirty.” 

_Shit. Bokuto. Shit._ Morisuke scrambled to his feet. “I need to talk to this guy. Where is he?” 

“We handed him over to the TMPD.” Seeing Morisuke’s frustration, Kai said, “He doesn’t know much about the organization. You won’t get anywhere by questioning him.” 

“That’s not—what did you ask him? Did you ask him who took the memory stick?” 

“I did. He doesn’t know their names. The only name he knows is Rye, which belongs to the man who arranged his previous jobs. This one was arranged by a woman. He asked her who she was, but she told him, ‘A secret makes a woman woman.’” 

A secret makes a woman woman? What kind of phrase was that? 

_Recon peeps: Gin, Vodka, Rye, Vermouth.  
V #2 is a secretive bitch. Knows disguise allegedly. Never seen her. G hates her. —D. _

“Vermouth,” Morisuke muttered. “I wonder if that’s Vermouth.” 

Daishou had mentioned her name twice, both a long time ago: once soon after he infiltrated the organization, and once right before he received a code name. The second time, he spoke to Vermouth on the phone, a call he managed to trace to New York. That was when he learned about the goal of the organization—or something like it. _We are of God and the Devil,_ Vermouth had said, _because we’re going to raise the dead against the stream of time._

“Daishou called her a secretive bitch,” said Morisuke. “She can disguise herself.” 

“Disguise?” 

“Shit,” Morisuke mouthed, an old fear resurrecting to gnaw at him. 

Shirofuku, the PSB make-up artist, had said that it was possible to create a facial mask to resemble another person. It was also possible to pull off a successful impersonation as long as the actor covered up the smell of the mask (or maintained sufficient distance) and modified their build and their voice accordingly. Soprano to bass would be impossible, but Daishou’s voice was in the tenor range. Mika hadn’t noticed anything different about Daishou, and given their relationship, nobody would be able to impersonate him for long. But what if it was just for two minutes? Long enough to pass an envelope to Mika? 

“Yaku,” said Kai. Morisuke started. “Did I miss something about Tropical Land? You seem...” 

“Tropical Land? Oh, Tropical Land.” Morisuke sank back into his chair. “It’s...” _It’s too hard to explain._ “Hang on. You... How did you know when—what’s his face—went to Tropical Land?” 

“Shachi? We’d been tailing him since Friday evening. Shibayama received an anonymous tip about an exchange scheduled for Friday evening at nine in Tokyo Station. We knew which coin locker they were going to use, but we never saw who dropped off the memory stick. Shachi picked it up at nine and went home. The next day we followed him to Tropical Land.” 

“You went in?” 

“No, we didn’t. The park was incredibly crowded that day because of a special bird show. We knew we’d lose him right away if we went in, so we waited by the two exits instead.” 

“Just you and Shibayama?” 

“No. I told Chief Nekomata that I needed help with this, so he assigned Numai’s team to me.” 

“What? The whole team? Aren’t they busy with their own work?” 

“Oh, no. They’re bored out of their minds. All the action is in TMPD Division Two these days because of the spotlight on Oikawa Tooru. The extremists are extremely quiet in comparison. Numai was so fired up about this that he busted Shachi’s door down to arrest him.” 

“I see,” said Morisuke, not sure if he should feel relieved or jealous that there were agents with very little to do and very little to consume them emotionally. But if they were so desperate for something to do, maybe he could borrow one of them to keep an eye on Mika. 

“So what should we do about this ASACA file?” asked Kai. “Could it be a red herring?” 

“Maybe. I don’t know. It’s just... I can’t ask my mom about this, but I can ask the people in her group. I’ll talk to them this afternoon. Hopefully they’ll know something.” 

_What a fucking mess._

  


* * *

  


After a visit to Beika General Hospital and a late lunch, Morisuke cut across the small campus of Beika University and entered the computer science building. He’d only been here once many years ago, when his mother moved to a new office and insisted that he tour the place. 

_It’s a Picasso painting in 3D!_ she’d said. _Isn’t it awesome?_

 _Rooms should be square,_ he’d replied. _Not jagged._

He spent twenty minutes looking for the office assigned to Sugawara Koushi, the postdoc in his mother’s research group. The elevator he took only went up to the second floor, the bridge he crossed randomly landed him on the fourth floor, and he was ready to sue the architect when he found himself standing in front of the right office but a locked door. 

_Great. Just my luck._

Suppressing the urge to punch something (preferably the architect), he knocked on the open door to the adjacent office that belonged to a certain Azumane Asahi. 

A tough man with a menacing goatee rose abruptly from his desk. “Yes? How may I help you?” he asked in a mild manner that didn’t match his _how dare you disturb me_ look. 

“Sorry, but I’m looking for Sugawara Koushi. Do you know if he’s around today?” 

“Oh, Suga? He’s playing ping pong with Daichi. Just go down this hallway to the elevators, take the spiral stairs down one floor—well, it only goes down one floor—go through the glass doors, turn right, and you should be able to find them. Would you like me to go with you?” 

“No, that’s okay. Thank you very much.” Morisuke nodded and followed the man’s directions to go downstairs. Ping pong? Was that some sort of computer lingo, jargon, euphemism? Or did he mean the actual sport table tennis? 

_He meant the sport,_ Morisuke thought when he heard the distinctive ping and pong. 

“Alright, ten-two,” said the person with light gray hair on the far end of the table. He bounced the ball a few times and hit a fast serve. 

“I said don’t use your super serve on an amateur!” the other person yelled as he swung his paddle but missed. Morisuke caught the ball flying off the table and tossed it back to him. “Oh, thank you. Sorry about that.” 

Morisuke said, “Excuse me for interrupting, but I’m looking for Sugawara Koushi.” 

Both looked at him in surprise. 

The one with the light gray hair smiled and said, “That would be me. Can I help you?” 

“I’m Yaku Morisuke. Yaku Chizuru is my mother. I’d like to talk to you about her work.” 

“Oh, of course.” Sugawara set his paddle on the table. “Daichi, I’ll leave this to you.” 

“Er,” said Morisuke. “I’m really sorry for interrupting.” 

Sugawara laughed and said, “No need to apologize. This is nothing important.” 

“Yeah, we were just slacking off.” 

“It’s called taking a break, Daichi! That’s also an important skill.” Sugawara turned to Morisuke. “Do you want to chat in my office? Or do you prefer the lounge?” 

Morisuke considered the topic for a moment. “It doesn’t matter.” 

“Why don’t we go to the lounge then? It’s more comfortable, and it’s right here.” Sugawara led Morisuke to the public area behind the glass doors, centered around the spiral staircase. “Do you drink coffee?” 

“Yeah.” 

“Like mother, like son. You must know this already, but Chizuru-sensei is the biggest caffeine addict in our department,” Sugawara said as he showed Morisuke the coffee machine tucked in the corner. “How is she, by the way? We wanted to visit her a couple weeks ago, but they wouldn’t let us into the ICU.” 

Morisuke hesitated as he recalled the sanitized hallways and the medical monitors that he’d come to loathe. He would sit for half an hour to an hour almost every day beside his mother, holding her hand as he struggled to tell her what had happened that day. He followed a formula and anonymized everything related to his work, but it never got easier. 

_Mom, it’s me, Morisuke. Uh, today is Monday, December 19, 2016. Sorry I didn’t come yesterday. It was... Yesterday was... I met this snob I wanted to sucker punch, and then... And then I met some friends of a friend, and... And I wish you could meet them. They are... He is... He is a big pain in the ass, but I feel like you two would get along. And do crazy things together. And drive me nuts. But it would be fun—_

_(so come back)_

“I take it she’s not well?” Sugawara said gently. 

“No,” Morisuke agreed, his voice too thick to quaver, too soft to crack. They sat down in the armchairs next to a translucent glass panel and sipped at their coffee. He’d come here for ASACA, but he started with a different question, seeking a different sort of closure. “Where was my mother when she—when the stroke happened? Was she in her office?” 

“No, she was in the colloquium room. Everyone was there for the cookies and the talk.” 

“Everyone had those cookies?” 

“Most people did. We have the same every week.” 

Sugawara remained affable despite Morisuke’s unfounded suspicion and irrational urge to blame somebody, something. Talking to Sugawara was soothing, so even though the detective side of Morisuke commanded wariness, it was easy—too easy—to believe him. 

“Who called the ambulance?” asked Morisuke. 

“That would be Hirota. Hirota Masami. She’s a first-year grad student in our group.” 

“Is she around? Can I talk to her?” 

“Unfortunately she went back to her hometown in Tottori. Her father fell ill last week.” 

“Oh.” 

“Do you want her cell number instead? I can give it to you. I don’t think she’ll mind.” 

“That... Yeah, that’d be great. Thanks.” Morisuke recorded the Tottori number displayed on Sugawara’s phone and made a mental note to call Hirota by tomorrow. “Sugawara-san...” 

“Suga is fine.” 

“Suga-kun, can I talk to you about ASACA?” 

“Sure. Go ahead.” 

“What is a song for ASACA?” 

“A song _for_ ASACA? Do you mean a song _by_ ASACA?” 

“A song by ASACA? What’s that?” 

“What do you know about ASACA?” 

“Just that it’s supposed to be an artificial human brain.” 

“Right. You know, what Chizuru-sensei really wants to do is to record a song written by ASACA. A computer can learn music theory and natural language and maybe even how to think, but it won’t have a voice unless a human supplies it. So a song is this ultimate collaboration between human and AI. It’s hard to explain. Do you want to meet ASACA?” 

“Um, okay. Sure.” Morisuke didn’t understand what was so “ultimate” about a song created by a computer, but he couldn’t deny that he was intrigued by ASACA. As they navigated their way downstairs, he asked, “Is everyone in my mother’s group working on ASACA?” 

“Yep. I’m working on natural language processing. Michimiya—she’s a third-year—is working on affective computing, which is basically computer psychology and cognition. I like to call her ASACA’s babysitter. Hirota hasn’t decided on a project yet. To be honest, I didn’t expect Chizuru-sensei to take Hirota on as a student. She’s always kept her group to one postdoc and one grad student, never more, but Hirota’s bright and Michimiya just passed her quals, so I guess she decided she could handle two students this time.” 

“Why does she do that? Keep her group so small, I mean.” 

“She says it’s like raising children, and she can’t handle too many at once. Were you a handful growing up?” Sugawara chuckled when Morisuke frowned. “I’m teasing. She always speaks very fondly of you. The real reason is limited funding. It’s strange, actually. The Landau Foundation wanted to give her something like a hundred million yen for ASACA this year, but she turned it down. We were shocked, but she said there were strings attached.” 

“Landau Foundation?” 

“The one established by Yuri Landau. Did you see the news about JAXA?” 

“JAXA? The interstellar mission?” 

“That’s the one.” 

“She turned the money down? What were the strings attached?” 

“I’m not sure. She didn’t say. But I’m guessing it would limit the freedom of her research. Maybe change what ASACA is designed to do.” 

Sugawara opened the door to a large room on the first floor. “This is the grad student office. That’s Hirota’s desk. She’s very minimalist.” He pointed to a metal desk with nothing on it, which looked abandoned compared to the other desks stacked with monitors, books, posters, mugs, stationery, and electronics. Morisuke goggled at the model city on the floor, at the dozens of rubber ducks scattered around a prominent road course. “That’s Duckietown,” Sugawara explained with a laugh. “It’s for the students working on self-driving cars.” 

“I see,” said Morisuke. That was a lot of ducks. 

“This is Michimiya Yui,” Sugawara introduced as he walked up to the girl sitting at a desk in the corner, in front of a large screen with a webcam mounted on top. “Michimiya, guess who’s here to visit ASACA. It’s the one and only Yaku Morisuke, Chizuru-sensei’s son.” 

“Oh my god!” Michimiya jumped up from her chair. “It’s so nice to meet you! Sensei has a picture of you on her desktop. The one where you went skiing. I see it at group meeting every week.” 

“Oh, that one,” Morisuke said and wondered if this was what it felt like to be a flamingo at the zoo. That photo was old, taken eight years ago when he got dragged to a winter retreat in Hokkaido. But the problem wasn’t the photo. The problem was the fact that she set his photo as her desktop background. Why on earth would she do that? It was embarrassing. 

“We went to visit sensei, but they didn’t let us into the ICU,” Michimiya said, reaching for the giant teddy bear on the chair next to her desk. “We bought this for her.” 

“Uh, thanks,” Morisuke said, slightly at a loss when the teddy bear ended up in his arms. 

“Michimiya,” Sugawara said as he pulled up two chairs. “Could you wake ASACA up?” 

“Oh yeah! ASACA-chan,” Michimiya called out, surprising Morisuke with the honorific, and tapped on the space bar of a keyboard. The large screen lit up, split into four panels. 

“That’s what ASACA sees,” Sugawara explained, referring to the top right panel that was streaming the feed from the webcam. A series of white dots and lines overlaid the video, demarcating the objects on screen. “That’s ASACA figuring out what she’s seeing. The panel below shows the algorithm output. It helps us understand what she’s thinking. This up here is the terminal window. It’s how we interact with the code directly. This one is the conversation window. It’s how she talks to us.” 

Just as Sugawara pointed at the lower left panel, a message popped up. 

`[asaca]$ Is that Morisuke-niisan? `

“Oh wow,” said Michimiya. “She knows who you are.” 

“Yeah, wow,” said Sugawara. “I didn’t expect that either. I guess Chizuru-sensei must’ve told her. Or were you eavesdropping just now, ASACA? You know you shouldn’t do that.” 

`[asaca]$ Eves dropping? What’s that? `

“Eavesdropping,” Michimiya said, typing it into the terminal. “New vocabulary.” 

`[asaca]$ I didn’t. `  
`[asaca]$ I just woke up.`  
`[asaca]$ Uncle Suga is wrong. `

“Yes, I know,” Sugawara said, vaguely amused, and paused. “Yaku-kun, you seem shocked.” 

“I...” Morisuke gaped at the screen. He knew about AlphaGo, Watson, Siri, which were startling in their own ways, but there was something deeply personal and unsettling about the way ASACA recognized and addressed him. “It... It does voice recognition, right? So why doesn’t it—speak? Why is it typing everything? Is that just not integrated yet?” 

“You mean like Siri?” said Michimiya. “There’s a reason for that. Computers don’t have vocal cords, so they can’t speak the way we speak. Programs like Siri rely on a bank of human recordings. All digital voices do. Sensei said she didn’t want to hear ASACA-chan speaking in another person’s voice because it’s not ‘hers.’ Besides, ASACA-chan is like a five-year-old right now and will grow ‘older’ as we teach her more things. We can’t evolve a voice recording.” 

“A five-year-old?” 

“Okay, not exactly. She knows more music theory than the average five-year-old. So maybe she’s more like a five-year-old Mozart. But in terms of language and social intelligence, she’s like a five-year-old. That’s really the only way for me to describe her current state.” 

“ASACA,” said Sugawara. “Your Morisuke-niisan is curious about your song. Wanna share it?” 

“Er,” Morisuke started to speak but Sugawara hushed him. 

There was a long pause, so long that Michimiya repeated the request, and then: 

`[asaca]$ No. `

“No?” Sugawara blurted out. “Why not?” 

`[asaca]$ I don’t want.`

“What? Come on, ASACA-chan,” Michimiya cooed. 

`[asaca]$ I SAID I DON’T WANT! `

The screen went black. 

“Wait, what just happened?” Michimiya hit the space bar repeatedly but drew no response. 

“I think a computer just threw a tantrum,” Sugawara observed. “How fascinating.” 

“Yeah, but why? She shared the song with the prospective students the other week.” 

“Maybe it doesn’t like me,” Morisuke joked. The entire exchange had been weird, uncanny, yet he felt detached from everything, incapable of even mustering fake grievance for show. 

“Well, I’m really sorry about that,” said Michimiya. “Strictly speaking, it’s just an MP3 file that I can copy for you, but—this sounds really stupid because she’s a computer—but it feels unethical if I did that. Like I went snooping around someone’s bedroom or something.” 

“MP3 file? How does it create an MP3 file if it can’t create audio?” 

“Oh, that’s from another software,” said Michimiya. “ASACA-chan writes the music. The score. Our next step is to teach her how to write lyrics. After that, we’ll work with a human singer to record the song. But I think sensei is thinking of doing that herself.” 

“That’s why I said this is a collaboration between human and AI,” said Sugawara. 

“How long is this going to take?” asked Morisuke. 

“That’s hard to say,” said Michimiya. “Technically we can speed up ASACA-chan’s learning process. Itakura-sensei, who’s another professor here and knows the most about ASACA-chan after Chizuru-sensei, wrote a piece of software that’ll teach ASACA-chan in one day what it’ll take a human one year to learn because it’s done on the machine level. But Chizuru-sensei prefers this human interaction approach, which is a lot slower.” 

“Why is she doing this?” 

_What is ASACA supposed to be?_

“Um, sensei says it’s about the process, not the results. It’s certainly more fun to interact with ASACA-chan like this. Like she’s really a child. But sensei also tells us that it’s just a projection of our emotions. She says it becomes obvious when ASACA-chan goes to sleep. She says you’re not looking at a sleeping child—you’re looking at a reflection of yourself.” Michimiya gestured at the blank screen, at the three faces peering into the black glass. 

Morisuke studied his muted reflection, aware that there were unspoken words beneath what his mother had said but unable to make out what they were. Maybe the right question to ask wasn’t “what is ASACA supposed to be” but—

His work phone buzzed in his pocket, and he felt a flash of irritation. Didn’t he tell Kuroo not to text him too soon? He picked up the teddy bear he’d put aside and realized something. 

“Things must be really complicated for you with my mom in the hospital,” he said. 

The two of them gave him a resigned look and an awkward smile. 

“It’s not so bad in the short run,” said Sugawara. “Chizuru-sensei is pretty hands-off to begin with. In the long run... I have one more year left, but I can apply for my own funding. It’s harder for Michimiya and her thesis, but the department knows this and is trying to help.” 

“Itakura-sensei can co-advise me,” said Michimiya. “If worst comes to worst, I’ll just switch groups. It’ll add years to the PhD, but I can’t complain. It must be way harder for you.” 

Morisuke blinked. “Eh, I’m okay.” 

“We really believe sensei will get better though,” said Michimiya. “And it’s not just wishful thinking because I need a thesis. Sensei cares a lot about her work. She’ll wake up.” 

“Yeah. Take it easy, Yaku-kun, and take care of yourself. Give Chizuru-sensei our regards.” 

“I will,” Morisuke replied, tightening his grip on the teddy bear as he stood up. “Thank you.” 

“Do you know the way out?” asked Sugawara. “Just keep left after you go out the door.” 

Morisuke thanked them again and made his way out of the building. His mind sifted through the information he’d gathered on ASACA, and he discovered that he’d learned a lot about his mother’s brainchild but also a lot about nothing in regard to the case. The guy Kai arrested must’ve been mistaken or lying. Was it all about an MP3 file? ASACA didn’t seem to do much otherwise. Only the Landau Foundation was cause for concern, but that was a money trail that Morisuke could follow while he tugged on the thread labeled Altana Pharmaceuticals. 

He would decline the Altana treatment, he decided on his way to the hospital to deliver the teddy bear. He would wait even if it felt like he wasn’t doing anything. He would wait, and he would trust his mother. He would believe that she would get better, and he would believe it with what, he hoped, was the same conviction that Michimiya held.

  


* * *

  


When he finally remembered to check the message on his phone, he was on the train to Shinjuku. It wasn’t from Kuroo as he’d assumed; it was from Shimizu.

> [S.K.]  
>  Request approved. S12 assigned. Class II. 

It was in response to the agent request he’d submitted that morning. S12 was Kuguri. Class II meant this was a side mission, so Kuguri wouldn’t report directly to him. Which was fine. As long as someone was watching over Mika to give him a peace of mind.

Morisuke returned to his message inbox out of habit, and the disappointment he’d restrained earlier clawed back to the surface at the sight of “K.T.” below the most recent message. His thumb slipped, or perhaps his subconscious took control, opening the chat log with Kuroo. The obnoxious “i miss u” was still there, but no matter how many times Morisuke read it, it didn’t go away, didn’t conjure up a new message, didn’t remove the lump in his throat. 

_I miss you—_

—was just his reading of that message. 

He turned off the screen, glowered at the air in front of him, and turned on the screen again. This was stupid. What he was going to do was stupid. But it was necessary. It was necessarily stupid and stupidly necessary. He was going to have to do it eventually for the sake of his mother anyway, so he might as well do it now and get it over with. This was not personal. 

He sent: _I have extra tickets to a NYE concert. Do you want to go?_

The reply, to his agony, came four hours later, during which he accomplished nothing except bounced his legs to burn calories and checked his phone to feed the addict in his brain.

> [K.T.]  
>  only if u go on a xmas date with me

Face burning, Morisuke was about to write a vicious reply to the scandalous suggestion that made him feel the impermissible when he received another message. And another one.

> [K.T.]  
>  dept party sat  
>  come meet my new friends~

Morisuke slammed his phone down on his desk and groaned as he brought his forehead to the cool surface. This was what people called “getting ahead of yourself,” wasn’t it? This was what it meant to get worked up over nothing, wasn’t it? Of course it was a code. It would always be a code with this phone. Even his own message was a code. The world must bear witness to his vow that he would never use this code with any other person ever again. Because it messed with his mind, not because it was reserved for Kuroo Tetsurou. Which it most definitely wasn’t. It was tomfoolery, it was trickery, it was deception. It was his defeat.

Complete, total, utter defeat. 

He replied: _Fine._

Kuroo sent: _[thumbs-up]_

And he spent the rest of the night debating what to do with the white flag in his hands. Holding it was one thing. Waving it was another. Maybe he could burn it and start over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Duckietown](http://duckietown.mit.edu/) is a real thing.


	10. Crossroads

Frustrated with the third request form he’d had to fill out in twenty-four hours, Morisuke picked up his office phone and put a call through to the division in charge of information compilation and analysis. He hadn’t called Hirota yet, he realized belatedly and reached for a pen to jot down the task on a sticky note. It was all Kuroo’s fault. At this thought, he scrawled a rude word on the note and then blotted it out with furious strokes that almost tore a hole in the paper. He’d been doing so well at not thinking about Kuroo—until now. 

“Hello, this is Yachi Hitoka of Zero-Seven. How may I help you?” 

“Hi, it’s Yaku. I’m calling to follow up on the request I put in yesterday. The one for the financial statements of Altana Pharmaceuticals. Is that still being processed?” 

“Oh! I was just about to call you, Yaku-san.” There was a rustle of papers on the other end and a yelp when something crashed. “Um, s-sorry, it’s gotten a little complicated. We don’t actually have that information in our database. It doesn’t look like anyone in the NPA has investigated them before. We contacted the tax bureau, but they got really annoyed at us. Apparently the TMPD is conducting an investigation involving Altana Pharmaceuticals right now. I think they have what you want, but it’ll take some time to process the paperwork.” 

“The TMPD is involved? Which division?” 

“Division Two.” 

“Is it a fraud investigation?” 

“I’m not sure. Actually, it might be faster for you to contact them directly. I mean, we’ll still carry on with the paperwork just in case they insist you go through the formal procedures, but you never know. They might be willing to share it with you once they know why.” 

“Who’s in charge of this?” 

“I think it’s an inspector named Iwaizumi Hajime.” 

_Iwaizumi?_ He was the one leading the investigation on Oikawa Tooru. Was he working on two cases at once? Nothing in the news had mentioned anything about Altana. 

“I’ll talk to him,” Morisuke told Yachi and glanced at the incomplete form on his computer. “One more thing. Do you have anything on the Landau Foundation? I won’t bother with this form if you don’t have anything.” _Or if the TMPD is hogging this as well._

“We do! But um, what we have is from Kai-san, so if you want the latest information, it might be more efficient to ask him instead. We can still put together a file for you though.” 

Morisuke looked across the room at his office mate, who was looking back at him with undisguised interest in his telephone conversation. “No, that’s okay. I’ll just talk to him,” Morisuke said, narrowing his eyes at Kai. He thanked Yachi and hung up. “So I hear you’re looking into the Landau Foundation,” he said to Kai. 

“And I hear you’re planning to look into them,” Kai said, smiling. 

Both of them turned their heads when someone appeared in the doorway to their office. 

Shimizu knocked and said, “Yaku-san, Chief Nekomata would like to see you in his office.” 

Morisuke raised an eyebrow. It must be something big if Shimizu came to summon him in person. On his way out, he shot Kai a warning look that said _we’re settling this when I’m back_. Kai replied with a smile that said _I’ll be waiting_.

  


* * *

  


In the waiting area outside of Chief Nekomata’s office, there sat a stiff, burly man with no eyebrows. Dressed in a uniform that identified him as an immigration officer, the man nodded politely to Morisuke as he passed through the area. 

Shimizu opened the door after a knock and showed Morisuke into the office. Two people he didn’t recognize sat across from Chief Nekomata: one was a stoic man who acknowledged him when he entered, and the other was—a woman? Her boots were designed for women, but her leather jacket hid any curves while short, messy hair framed an androgynous face. She gave him a sullen look when Chief Nekomata beckoned him to take the seat next to her. 

“This is Sera Masumi,” said Chief Nekomata. “She’s an FBI agent, but her investigation in Japan has been illegal. She’s offered to trade intel before we hand her over to Immigration. It pertains to your case, Yaku, so it’s your call whether or not the information is valuable.” 

Sera scoffed, and Morisuke frowned at her. He swallowed, trying to quell the renewed dread of the nightmarish exchange with Miya. “What do you want?” he asked. 

“Seeing as I’m about to be deported,” she said, “what I want isn’t from you but from him.” She jerked her thumb at the person on her other side. “My brother was murdered. I want to see the camera footage of the murder, and I want to bring his remains back to the States.” 

Chief Nekomata introduced the other person as Ushijima Wakatoshi of TMPD Division One, the inspector who responded to the death of Moroboshi Dai at Iroha Sushi on November 27. It turned out Moroboshi Dai was the alias of an FBI undercover agent whose real name was Akai Shuuichi, the older brother of Sera Masumi who had taken their mother’s surname. 

“He died naturally,” said Ushijima. “It was a heart attack.” 

“Bullshit,” said Sera. “He had no heart problems. He was murdered, and I will prove it to you if you let me see the damn footage.” 

Chief Nekomata cleared his throat. “He will if Yaku is interested in what you have to offer.” 

Morisuke opened his mouth to comment on the unorthodox and unfair three-way trade but changed his mind when he caught sight of their expressions. Sera was clearly irate that she was getting the short end of the stick, and Ushijima with his rigid posture seemed displeased somehow despite his neutral countenance. Morisuke might end up as the one walking away with a free lunch, but he knew it was an illusion. One never gained more than what one lost. 

“What do you know?” Morisuke asked Sera. 

“The organization has created an undetectable poison,” she answered. “I know what it’s called. I know who made it.” _And I know who it killed_ , said her intense gaze. “Judging from your expression, I’d say what I have to offer is far more than what I’m getting in return.” 

Aware of Chief Nekomata’s and Ushijima’s eyes on him, Morisuke unclenched his fists and forced himself to ask, “Why should we believe you?” 

“I will go to hell and back for my brother,” Sera said with quiet precision. “But now I can’t.” She held Morisuke’s gaze, her fury dissolving into pain and a silent plea. He understood then and there that she never wanted to trade anything—she simply wanted to pass the baton to someone to finish the race for her so that she could bring her big brother home. 

“Let her see the footage,” said Morisuke. 

Sera leaned back in her chair and waited as Ushijima removed a laptop from his bag and placed it on Chief Nekomata’s desk where they could all see the screen. The grainy footage was from a security camera inside Iroha Sushi, showing seven people in the restaurant: one chef, three customers at the counter (two next to each other and the third a seat apart), and the other three customers together at a table. A few minutes into the video, Sera paused it, replayed the last few seconds, and paused it again. She pointed at the couple at the counter. 

“This woman refilled my brother’s tea,” she said. “She must’ve poisoned him that way.” 

“We found no evidence for poisoning,” Ushijima said. “We checked the food and the utensils. The autopsy results also supported death by natural causes.” 

“You can only check for what you know. I already told you it’s an undetectable poison.” 

“That is merely your speculation. You have no proof. Furthermore, this footage only shows that she refilled his drink. It does not contain any evidence that she tampered with his drink.” 

“Crap footage,” Sera muttered. “Did you talk to this woman? Who did she say she was?” 

“She identified herself as Hirota Masami. She claimed to be your brother’s girlfriend.” 

Sera barked a laugh while Morisuke blurted out, “Hirota?” 

“She pulled a fast one on you, inspector. You were asking who Moroboshi Dai was, but did it ever occur to you to ask who Hirota Masami is?” Sera turned to Morisuke, her mouth twisting into a victorious but also anguished smile. “Do you know who she is?” When he couldn’t respond, she said, “Her real name is Miyano Akemi. Her sister is Miyano Shiho, also known as Sherry, the one who created the poison called APTX 4869. Their mother is Miyano Elena. They call her Hell Angel. Can I borrow a pen and paper?” Sera asked Chief Nekomata and sketched a map. “This is where Sherry’s lab is. The rest is up to you, agent. Good luck.”

  


* * *

  


Morisuke didn’t know how he returned to his office. He sat with his head in his hands, staring blankly at the map of Teitan University and the sticky note that said _Call Hirota_. 

Kai placed a cup of water in front of him. “What happened?” 

_Hirota is a false name. She assumed the role of my mother’s student. She has access to a new poison. Her mother is my mother’s doctor. Their accomplice wanted to buy information from me._

“I need to talk to Kuroo,” Morisuke mumbled, fumbling for his phone. He dialed Kuroo’s number, lost count of how many times it rang, and finally threw his phone down. “What the fuck is he doing?” he uttered in a harsh whisper and kicked his desk out of frustration. 

“Maybe you can find him on campus,” Kai suggested. “He’s working at Teitan U, isn’t he?” 

Morisuke looked up at his office mate, who was regarding him with concern and sympathy. “Kai, you’re brilliant,” he said and promised himself to update Kai on everything once he was more coherent. He folded Sera’s map and pocketed it along with his phone. 

“Yaku,” said Kai as Morisuke was about to take his leave. “Be careful.”

  


* * *

  


Teitan University was about three times larger than Beika University but ten times easier to navigate. Very quickly, Morisuke found the biochemistry department on the first floor of the chemistry building at the heart of campus. Kuroo hadn’t replied to his text _where are you_ , nor was his office listed in the building directory, so it was blind luck from here on. 

He’d better not be playing ping pong or foosball or whatever with somebody. 

Morisuke walked past a small classroom where Agasa Hiroshi was lecturing to five students. While he wasn’t here for Rum, he lingered briefly anyway in front of offices with name plates he recognized. Yoshida Shouyou’s door was closed and covered in comics about professors. Wakasa Rumi’s door was ajar, a red couch visible through the gap. Takeda Ittetsu was typing at his computer, too absorbed in his work to notice Morisuke pausing outside his door. 

He almost missed Kuroo. The name plate said Sakata Kintoki, but he jerked to a stop when a person sporting an epic bed hair entered his peripheral vision. A second later, Kuroo glanced at him and did a double take. 

“What are you doing here?” Kuroo whispered. The other person in the room, presumably this Sakata Kintoki, raised his head out of idle curiosity but buried his nose in his work again. 

“Do you want to get lunch?” asked Morisuke. He had the strangest urge to throw himself at Kuroo, to breathe in the scent of sugar and spice, but he stayed put, fiddling with his jacket. 

Kuroo gave him a funny look but grabbed his wallet without a word and followed Morisuke out of the building. 

Standing on the sidewalk, Morisuke asked, “Where should we eat?” 

“You’re asking me?” 

“I don’t know this area, and I don’t want to go that far. Is there a place we can eat and talk?” 

“Uh, well, that’s the student center.” Kuroo pointed at the long building across the street. “There’s cheap takeout food and a giant lawn on the other side. Would that work?” 

“Yeah,” said Morisuke. 

After disagreeing on which stall they should buy their lunch (“Takoyaki!” “Yakisoba!”), they agreed to split up and meet up afterwards. (“Why do we have to go to the same place if it’s takeout anyway?” “Fine, go get your stupid octopus.”) They found a quiet spot on the lawn away from the others and watched a group of foreigner students play frisbee for a while. 

Kuroo speared a takoyaki ball and said, “As much as I’m enjoying this, Yakkun, I don’t think you came all the way here for an impromptu lunch date with me. What are you doing here?” 

“Nobody’s on a lunch date with you,” Morisuke retorted, his mouth full of fried soba. 

“That’s kinda what I said. But that doesn’t answer my question. Why are you here?” 

“You didn’t answer your phone, so I came to hunt you down.” 

“What? My phone?” Kuroo pulled out his phone from his pants pocket but slipped it back in when he realized it was the wrong one, and dug into the inner pocket of his jacket. “Oh,” he said, tapping on the screen. “Sorry. I keep this one on silent. You said not to let anyone know about it, so I figured the safest way to do that is if I forgot I had it in the first place.” 

“Am I supposed to praise you for that?” Morisuke huffed but conceded it was a smart move. His phone buzzed. Kuroo flashed a smug grin, and Morisuke frowned. 

Kuroo had replied: _im right next to u_

“Who cares?” Morisuke yelled and chucked his phone at Kuroo. He regretted it instantly. Now he couldn’t retrieve it without reaching between Kuroo’s legs. “Give that back.” 

“You threw it here. Come get it yourself.” 

Morisuke harrumphed and ate the rest of his lunch in crabby silence. He would wait it out (he couldn’t—the phone was too important). He set aside his empty plate and looked askance at Kuroo, who had finished his meal as well and was sitting cross-legged, hands on the ground behind him and eyes on the frisbee game. Scowling, Morisuke scooted closer. He seized his phone and yelped, crashing into Kuroo as the latter folded him in his arms. 

“Gotcha,” said Kuroo. 

Feeling incredibly hot with one arm pressed against Kuroo’s thigh, Morisuke pushed himself upright. He tensed when Kuroo moved closer and spoke in a low voice next to his ear. 

“So what happened? I think you’re upset at something.” 

“I’m upset at you, you ass.” 

“Are you? I must confess that I am both saddened and honored to have become a burden on your mind, but I doubt that’s really the case here. Yakkun,” he crooned. 

“When are you going to stop calling me that?” 

“Never.” Smiling, Kuroo rested his chin on Morisuke’s shoulder and laced his fingers together, locking his arms around Morisuke’s waist. 

It felt nice. 

Letting Kuroo remain where he was, Morisuke shoved his phone into his pocket and asked, “How’s Bokuto?” 

“Bokuto?” A pause. “Man, I wish I knew. Konoha was hounding me yesterday—that’s Bokuto’s colleague. He was convinced I hid Bokuto somewhere. I told him to ask Akaashi. He said Akaashi told him to ask me. What the hell. So I asked Akaashi later where _he_ hid Bokuto. Guess what he said? He said he hadn’t seen Bokuto since Saturday. He’s good at this game. You should recruit him. But now I’m worried he hid Bokuto in the morgue.” 

Morisuke snorted. “Would he do that?” 

“You never know with Akaashi. But more seriously, I don’t know. We think what happened to Bokuto might have something to do with telomerase, which is this enzyme that can stop a cell from aging and dying. It’s linked with cancer. Anyway, we found a study that claimed telomerase activation can rejuvenate prematurely aged mice. Not that this really helps us.” 

Morisuke bit his lip while his heart hammered. “I know what the drug is called.” 

“What?” Kuroo lifted his chin from Morisuke’s shoulder, taken aback. 

“I know what it’s called,” Morisuke repeated and met Kuroo’s eyes. “APTX 4869,” he said and told Kuroo about Sera Masumi, her brother, and Miyano Shiho, code name Sherry. 

“APTX 4869,” Kuroo murmured. “Apoptosis heart attack. APTX. Apoptosis? Hm...” 

“Another thing. Have you come across the Landau Foundation?” 

“I know of it. In fact, I think it gave money to the department I’m in. It seems legit though.” 

“Is that money for a specific person? Project?” 

“I think it’s for the whole department.” 

“They tried to give money to my mom, but she turned them down.” Morisuke hesitated before he told Kuroo the rest of what he’d learned from Sera. “You know, on the train ride here, I thought Miya set this up. I thought he wanted PSB intel, so he worked with the Miyanos to turn my mom into a bargaining chip. Like a hostage. But now I wonder if it’s because she turned down the money and wouldn’t do what they wanted her to do.” 

“Or both,” said Kuroo. He drew Morisuke closer. “If they planned this, there’s a possibility that she might not have suffered a stroke at all. There’s this thing called a medically induced coma. It’s really anesthesia and completely reversible, especially for a healthy person.” 

“Bastards,” Morisuke muttered, feeling a wave of hope rippling through the simmering anger. “But we can’t just charge into the hospital. We need to confirm this first. Somehow.” Could he negotiate with them, or would that make it worse? What exactly did they want? With him? With his mother? With ASACA? He pulled out Sera’s chicken scratch of a map that depicted a crooked box labeled _IST_ , two sets of squiggly lines, an arrow pointing north, and an X. “This is where Miyano Shiho’s lab is supposed to be. Want to go check it out?” 

“Right now?” 

“We’re not going in,” Morisuke said, trying not to miss the warmth and the touch when Kuroo withdrew his arms to study the map. “Not today. You’re not going in by yourself either. But we can take a look from the outside. Maybe come up with a strategy for later.” 

“It’s to the west of the IST building.” Kuroo loaded the campus map on his personal phone. “Which is already on the west end of campus. That’s pretty far out.” 

“Why are you consulting a map on your phone? Don’t you have it memorized?” 

“Cut me some slack! I just started here yesterday.” 

Morisuke rolled his eyes and rose to his feet. “Should we go?” 

“Yeah, let’s go.”


	11. Confessions

The IST building of Teitan University looked like a spaceship made of red bricks and glass, parked over the railroad tracks that marked the west edge of campus. 

“Oh, that is not fair,” Kuroo complained as they climbed the ramp to the walkway alongside the building. “Why do they get such a cool building? Ours is like a bunker.” 

“I’d rather be in a bunker if an earthquake happens,” Morisuke said dryly. 

Kuroo wasn’t listening. He peered through the glass wall, at the polished floor and large doors. “Is that a lecture hall or an auditorium? They have an auditorium? Man, I bet it’s real snazzy. I need to make some friends here. Or convince the science faculty to take over this building.” 

“What are you—that’s enough ogling, you idiot.” Morisuke stomped up to Kuroo and yanked on his arm. “We have business elsewhere. Get your stupid ass moving.” 

“Hey, Yakkun, do you want to check out this building after we’re done with the other one?” 

“No. This place is irrelevant,” Morisuke said, marching toward the end of the walkway. As Kuroo matched his stride, his grip on Kuroo’s arm loosened, and he released his hold before his hand could slip into Kuroo’s hand. Shit, that was the forbidden zone. 

“Are you jealous?” 

“What? Jealous of what? The building? Why would I be jealous of a building? You clearly need to get out more if you’re impressed by that building.” Morisuke halted outside of a parking lot. “Where’s the lab we’re looking for?” 

Kuroo draped an arm across Morisuke’s shoulder and pointed at a decrepit building to the side. “Should be that one,” he said, his voice coming from beside Morisuke’s head instead of above. 

Morisuke glared at him. His lazy smirk declared that he knew it was completely unnecessary to do what he was doing, but he was doing it anyway just to get under Morisuke’s skin. “Watch your posture,” Morisuke scolded and stalked off, pissed that he’d somehow managed to insult himself. 

He took a deep breath and pushed up his sleeves to shake off the excess heat that’d accumulated from being around Kuroo for too long. He had important things to do, he reminded himself. Like checking for security cameras around this building. Like checking out the entrances and exits of this building. Like _not_ thinking about Kuroo’s hands or mouth or other parts of his anatomy. 

“Is this place in use?” Kuroo asked, leaning as far as he could over the thick shrubs surrounding the single-story building to discern what was on the other side of the cracked, grimy windows. 

Morisuke studied the padlock on the only door of the building. The door latch had rusted, but not the padlock, which appeared brand new. He could pick it if he had his tools. “What did the campus map say about this place?” he asked and frowned when he spotted no cameras. 

“It wasn’t on the map,” Kuroo replied as he joined Morisuke in surveying the small building that couldn’t possibly contain more than three or four average-sized rooms. “What should we say if someone asks us what we’re doing out here?” 

“Exploring,” said Morisuke. He narrowed his eyes at the parking lot in front of the building. “Or we could act like drunk college kids out on an adventure.” 

“Is that spoken from experience?” 

“Hah, you wish. Let’s go.” As they made their way back to the IST building, Morisuke asked, “Did you see anything through the windows? I couldn’t really see anything.” 

“A bunch of weird buckets and containers. Couldn’t tell what was in them. So what’s the plan?” 

“I haven’t thought of it yet.” 

“Well then,” Kuroo drawled, slipping his hand into Morisuke’s and twining their fingers together. “Since we’re _exploring_ , wanna explore—” 

“ _What_ are you doing?” Morisuke cried out, trying to disentangle his fingers from Kuroo’s. If he didn’t disengage soon, he was going to become a car engine running without a cooling system. 

“I’m holding your hand.” 

“Yeah, I can see that, smartass. But _why_ are you doing this?” 

“Because I want to.” 

“You, that’s not—fuck it, let go!” 

“You do realize you’re the one holding my hand at this point, right?” 

“What, I’m—” Morisuke stopped jiggling his hand and discovered, to his horror, that Kuroo was right. In his panic, he had switched to clenching his fist. _Relax_ , said the solemn voice of reason. 

“Is it so bad to hold my hand?” Kuroo asked quietly. 

_No, it’s not._

Morisuke stared at Kuroo, reading, hearing, sensing the other’s uncertainty. _Not knowing_ was perhaps the most terrifying state for a detective, a scientist, a person to be in. “I’m... We’re not...” 

They were not—what? 

“Do you want to be?” 

The raw hope in Kuroo’s soft voice settled on him as the mild December sunlight had, stirring memories of a song his mother had sung once while drunk, the lyrics slurred and out of tune. 

  


_I’m just a speck of dust drifting through the cosmos;  
I stumbled into your arms and never want to let go._

  


He knew. He knew, but he didn’t _know_. 

“Be what?” he asked. 

“Together.” 

  


_What brought me to you?_

  


“Yeah,” he said, giving an answer that he wasn’t sure if he vocalized or imagined until Kuroo squeezed his hand, smiling that impossible smile, and leaned forward to kiss him. He tasted the grilled octopus and citrus sauce, felt the hand along his jawline—

A train thundered past beneath them, and he wrenched himself away. “Oh my god,” he groaned. “We’re making out on a runway for jet fighters.” 

Kuroo gave a hearty laugh that made Morisuke’s heart palpitations worse. “What jet fighters?” 

“It’s not funny!” Morisuke pressed his palms against his eyes, pretending that if he couldn’t see the influx of students on the walkway and the streets, they would go away. 

“Okay, I get it.” Kuroo pulled Morisuke’s hands away from his face and peered at him, grinning. “Want to go explore the IST building? Maybe we’ll find a room.” He waggled his eyebrows. 

Morisuke scowled (or tried to). “It’s the middle of a workday. There are things I have to do.” 

“Don’t those things include me?” 

“You—” Morisuke was convinced that his entire body flushed at the innuendo. He yanked his hands out of Kuroo’s and whacked the other on the shoulder. 

“Ow. Alright, I won’t ask you to play hooky anymore. You won’t have to become a tax thief.” 

“You’re the tax thief,” Morisuke huffed, tapping into his inner five-year-old, and turned to march down the ramp before his IQ could plummet to zero or maybe the negative. 

Kuroo caught up in no time and wrapped an arm around Morisuke’s waist. Morisuke squirmed, but the laws of physics seemed to have changed, because instead of breaking free, he found himself gravitating toward Kuroo, like a comet knocked into an orbit that brought it to the sun rather than to infinity. He clasped his arms around Kuroo and looked up. 

“Want to go back to my place tonight?” Kuroo asked in a low voice. 

Morisuke knew that if he did, he wouldn’t be staying in the guest bed any longer. Maybe he could get used to this—to seeing Kuroo’s face every morning, every evening, every day, every night. 

“Or do you want me to go to your place?” Kuroo asked. “It’s closer to Chiyoda, isn’t it?” 

Feeling as tiny as his apartment, Morisuke replied in an equally tiny voice, “Your place is bigger.” 

“Hmm...” Kuroo smiled. “What do you want for dinner?” 

(Time slowed. Space curved. The world receded.) 

“You decide,” said Morisuke, trusting free fall. 

“Okay,” Kuroo said, smile widening, and pecked him on the forehead. 

Yes, he thought as their fingers laced together again. He could get used to this.

  


* * *

  


After he left Teitan University, he swung by Beika General Hospital to confirm that his mother was as she had been. He didn’t stay for long, not when he suspected ulterior motives in every single person he encountered in the hospital (nurses, staff, patients, visitors). He wished he could transfer his mother to another doctor at another hospital, but he didn’t know everything and couldn’t prove anything. Like it or not, he would have to play this game of cat and mouse. 

Kai was perusing a document when Morisuke returned to their office. 

“Welcome back,” said Kai. 

“I thought you would’ve bailed on me by now,” Morisuke remarked. “Should we chat?” 

“Before we do, I recommend that you finish anything else you planned to get done today, because what I have to say about the Landau Foundation is a little disquieting, I’m afraid.” 

“You know I hate suspense.” 

“It’s better than the denouement. Weren’t you also looking into Altana Pharmaceuticals?” 

“You can buy yourself ten minutes,” Morisuke warned and received a smile and a nod in reply. 

He reached for his desk phone, crumpled the sticky note that said _Call Hirota_ , and tossed it into the trash. There was no point in calling her now. Not until he came up with a plan to deal with the Miyanos. Instead, he made a call to TMPD Division Two and spent twenty minutes on the line, first with someone who didn’t know what was going on, then with the secretary, and finally with Iwaizumi, who sounded gruff, pressed for time, and spread too thin but agreed to meet with Morisuke on Thursday. He ended the call and looked expectantly at Kai. 

“So,” he said. 

“So,” Kai echoed. 

“Fine, I’ll give you my update first,” Morisuke said, remembering his promise to himself, and told Kai about the morning meeting in Chief Nekomata’s office, about the connection between the Miyanos and his mother, about ASACA and the music file, but not about Bokuto or Miya. He spun the tale about Altana to be about Miyano Elena instead. To simplify the complication. 

“What do they want with ASACA?” asked Kai. 

“I wish I knew. It has to do with the Landau Foundation. So will you tell me about them now?” 

There was a long pause. Kai crossed the room and closed the door. “What I know about the Landau Foundation has nothing to do with ASACA,” Kai said after he sat down again. “But now that I think about it, there might be a connection after all. The Landau Foundation claims to support basic research and funds a mixed bag of projects that appear unrelated to each other. Medical research, especially cancer and aging research, an interstellar mission, and recently a project to break us out of the simulation that we apparently live in.” 

Morisuke almost choked on his spit. “Wait a minute, what? Break us out of a simulation? Like we’re in the Matrix? I’ve heard of that idea, but are there really people taking it seriously?” 

“It’s not really people. It’s a very rich man who thinks he can do something about it.” 

“Yuri Landau?” 

“Yuri Landau. I don’t profess to know the man or understand him, but either he has very diverse interests, or he’s afraid of dying and of not being in control. Death is a common fear, perhaps universal. Its connection to medical research is obvious. Interstellar missions are related to the long-term survival of humanity, so that’s another link to death. But there’s also a subtle link to the idea of power and control. To conquer not just life and a planet but also the universe. Reality. That’s where the simulation comes in. To break out of what we don’t control to gain control.” 

“You’ve done a lot of thinking about this guy. You think he runs the organization?” 

“I don’t know. But maybe he wanted to fund ASACA to help them with the simulation project.” 

“And my mom turned them down because she thought it was bullshit? Sounds like something she’d do, honestly. But why would they take her out just because of this? That’s so fucking petty.” 

“Here’s what I don’t understand. If they meant to take her out, why didn’t they kill her directly?” 

Morisuke froze, staring at Kai. 

“Yaku, what are you keeping from me? It makes no sense for them to put your mother in coma and then bring Altana Pharmaceuticals out in the open for you to investigate.” 

Morisuke averted his gaze and said weakly, “I don’t know.” 

“They know who you are, don’t they?” 

“Huh?” 

“They know who you are, and they want information from you. That’s the only way to explain why they put your mother in coma and offered you the option of a novel treatment.” 

Morisuke swallowed, realizing for the first time the possibility that Miya’s trap wasn’t designed to break the division but to aim all arrows at him. His own voice sounded foreign. “Kai, I didn’t—” 

“I’m not saying you did. I know you well enough to know that you’d rather die than sell us out. But they approached you, didn’t they? Have you wondered how they got that information?” 

_You must really trust the people you work with._

“They know my mom,” said Morisuke. _It was a stab in the dark, and I was stupid enough to confirm it._

Kai shook his head. “Yaku, the PSB information was leaked before they targeted your mother. Do you remember when Shibayama and I had difficulty tracking down leads a few weeks ago? They knew what we were doing, so they were a step ahead of us.” 

“What?” The implication sank in. “ _What?_ ” Morisuke repeated, outrage displacing bewilderment. “You mean they knew—they know what the PSB is doing? You mean he—they really... Shit, who?” 

“I have a guess, but I have no proof, which is why I didn’t want to mention this to you at all. I had someone transferred from the PSB as a test. Either I guessed right, or the mole is very careful.” 

“What? What do you mean?” 

“I suspected Lev. If it isn’t Lev, then whoever it is knows I suspected Lev and is acting to make me think it’s still Lev because the leaks stopped after Lev left the PSB.” 

“Lev? You think it’s Lev? Are you... Are you crazy? Have you ever talked to Lev? There’s no way—” 

“That’s why I said I have no proof. Here’s what I do know. Lev’s mother is a Japanese citizen now, but she was born Russian. Landau is her last name. Yuri Landau is her cousin.” 

_Why JAXA?_ he’d asked. _Why not NASA?_

“Holy shit.” Morisuke clutched his head. The backgrounds of first cousins once removed and more distant kinship weren’t examined during the security clearance process. Not to mention, Lev was born and raised in Japan and didn’t speak Russian. If the double agent was really him, he’d slipped perfectly under the radar. Even if it wasn’t him, his family ties were nontrivial. 

Kai said, “I started investigating Yuri Landau and the Landau Foundation because of Lev. I hate to say it, but I think we’re on the right track now that ASACA, your mother, and you are involved.” 

“Wait, I still can’t...” Something Kai had said nagged at Morisuke. Whether it was Lev or not, someone in the PSB had leaked Morisuke’s identity and what Shibayama had been investigating. “Shibayama.” Morisuke stared at Kai in horror. “Do they know who Shibayama is? Do they know who you are? What else do they know? Shit, what about Daishou? What about Kuroo? Shit, shit.” 

“Daishou should be safe because his mission was assigned a long time ago, and the few people who know about it are very tight-lipped,” said Kai. “I don’t know about me, but they have yet to approach me or my family. Unfortunately, I believe they know about Shibayama. The main reason I requested additional help to tail Shachi was to capture whoever was tailing Shibayama. We failed to achieve that, but I don’t know if it’s because they stopped tailing Shibayama or if it’s because they managed to fool us. I became very concerned when you mentioned Vermouth.” 

“What the hell. How did you know someone was tailing Shibayama?” 

“Numabuchi’s murder. Something didn’t make sense. Whoever shot Numabuchi must’ve known that Shibayama was in the vicinity. Numabuchi was firing at Shibayama and conversing with him. They would have to be blind and deaf not to realize that Shibayama witnessed the murder. Why did they let Shibayama walk away? The only explanation I could come up with was that they still needed Shibayama. Maybe they had been following Shibayama’s investigations, and Numabuchi was an accidental find. They’d been meaning to get rid of Numabuchi, and that was their chance.” 

“So what is this? They didn’t kill Shibayama because they didn’t want to start over with an unknown agent? ‘Keep your friends close and your enemies closer.’ Is that it? Shit. What the fuck. I can’t believe you—what’re you going to do now?” 

“I’m taking Shibayama off the case. It’s for the best. He deserves a vacation anyway.” 

Morisuke heaved a sigh and massaged his temples. “Yeah, fine... What about Kuroo?” he asked, but Kai only gave him a remorseful look. He didn’t grasp it at first, but when he did, something in him snapped. He slammed his fists on his desk and shouted, “Shit, Kai! You didn’t stop me from sending him out there even though they already know who he is! They must’ve known before he even applied for the fucking job! And you knew! And you didn’t stop me! What the fuck!” 

“Yaku—” 

“Shut the fuck up! I don’t want to hear your fucking excuses!” He kicked his chair back and planted his forehead on his desk, gripping his hair and squeezing his eyes shut to stop his tears. 

Of all people, it had to be him. Why, of all people, did it have to be him?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The lyrics in this chapter are adapted from [this song](http://www.xiami.com/song/1771534242).


	12. Ciao

It was dark by the time Morisuke arrived at Kuroo’s apartment. He hadn’t spoken to Kai since his outburst, but his anger had subsided in the hour afterwards as he mulled over his next steps. He wasn’t going down without a fight, he vowed, and he wasn’t going to lose. 

Kuroo opened the door and flooded the stairwell with yellow light. “Hey,” he greeted. 

“Hey,” Morisuke replied, mirroring Kuroo’s smile. 

Nobody was going to take this away from him. 

Dropping his bag of clothes on the floor, he took off his shoes and his jacket while the door closed behind him. Kuroo slipped his arms around Morisuke’s waist and murmured against his neck, “Did you miss me?” 

Morisuke rammed his elbow backwards and heard a satisfying _oof_. “I saw you a few hours ago,” he said as he walked into the living room, where he found the kotatsu and a steaming pot that must be the source of that sweet and salty aroma. 

Kuroo grumbled, “Someone’s not very loving tonight.” 

“Why did you move the kotatsu out here?” 

“Because we’re having sukiyaki,” Kuroo answered from the kitchen. “Come give me a hand.” 

Morisuke helped Kuroo carry the bowls and the chopsticks to the kotatsu. As they added the ingredients to the pot, Morisuke remarked, “Everything is going to smell like sukiyaki.” 

“That’s why I closed the doors to the other rooms,” said Kuroo. Then he smirked. “If it bothers you, we can take a hot bath together after this.” 

Morisuke hissed and dumped the tofu into the pot, almost splashing the broth on Kuroo. “I can’t tell if you plot these things beforehand or if you’re just an opportunist.” 

“Both?” 

“I thought you hate mushrooms,” Morisuke said when Kuroo added enokitake to the pot. 

Kuroo gasped. “I’m so touched you pay attention to what I say.” Morisuke shot him a withering look, and he said, “Yeah, well. Bokuto insists that sukiyaki isn’t real unless there’s enokitake, so I’ve gotten used to adding them. I just don’t eat them. They’re weird. Do you eat them?” 

“Yes. They’re really good.” 

Shuddering, Kuroo said, “They’re all yours.” 

While they waited for the sukiyaki to cook, Morisuke asked, “Do you do this often?” 

“Nah. Just a few times in the winter when it’s cold or I have a bunch of people over. I didn’t feel like cooking today, so...” Kuroo shuffled around the corner and wedged himself into the tight spot next to Morisuke. 

“What the hell? There’s so much space over there! Go back to your side.” 

“Nope.” 

“It’s hot! The kotatsu is on. We’re eating hot pot. I don’t need your body heat on top of that.” 

“So what did you do this afternoon?” 

“Argh.” Morisuke gave up trying to shove Kuroo out of the way, opting to move himself to the adjacent side. “I can see you better this way,” he said, peeved, and Kuroo’s disappointed look turned thoughtful. _Dumbass._ He picked up his chopsticks and grabbed a cooked slice of beef. 

“And so it begins.” Kuroo raised his chopsticks dramatically. “The battle for the last piece of meat and the title of the hot pot shogun.” 

Morisuke stared at Kuroo poised to capture the hot pot creatures with his chopsticks harpoon. “Are you stupid?” he asked and bit into his slice of beef. 

Red colored Kuroo’s face and ears as he helped himself to the sukiyaki. It was endearing but mostly exasperating, more so when he fished out a clump of enokitake, wrinkled his nose, and deposited it into Morisuke’s bowl. It was exasperating because now Morisuke wanted to snuggle against him, but that would bring out the insufferable Kuroo, so he didn’t budge. They ate in silence for a while, listening to the bubbling of the pot and the clink of the tableware. 

“I was thinking...” Kuroo said with a rare pensive expression. “Next time we have sukiyaki, we should call up the others. It’s no fun if I’m the only one who wants to be the hot pot shogun. Bokuto puts up a good fight. We’re inviting Bokuto next time. You’re not allowed to complain.” 

The words from Morisuke’s impulsive reaction dispersed as quickly and as quietly as his breath. Kuroo didn’t say it, but he heard it: a stupid promise to make everything right again, assuming an equally stupid optimism and vision of tomorrow that life would return to normal. He stretched out his foot under the kotatsu and stomped on Kuroo’s leg. The tofu between Kuroo’s chopsticks landed beside the portable stove with a splat. 

“What the heck? What was that for? I said you’re not allowed to complain.” 

In response, Morisuke nabbed the rest of the meat from the pot and sneered at Kuroo’s shock. He snatched his bowl away when Kuroo snapped his chopsticks at the meat in it. “Never let your guard down, soldier,” he said in jest, but the reality of Kuroo’s undercover work sent a jolt of fear through him for the vulnerability he had to expose and face before it was too late. 

“What’s this, Yakkun? Are you trying to cheer me up?” 

Morisuke replied, after a pause too long, “I didn’t notice you were moping.” He looked away from Kuroo’s probing eyes that were now without their earlier impish glint. Frowning, he slid his bowl across the kotatsu and went back to his original seat, burrowing himself against Kuroo. Leaning against that solid presence. 

“Okay, what’s up?” 

Morisuke chewed his lip as he prepared to lay out what he had deduced from the actions of the organization or lack thereof. “It’s likely that the organization knows you work for the PSB,” he said, and Kuroo stilled. “I’m not sure what they would do with that knowledge. They could make it impossible for you to investigate, or they could approach you, maybe even the people around you. You need to be extra careful.” He dug his fingers into his palm. “Also, you’re not the only agent whose identity was leaked. The other one has been taken off the case. If you... If you also want to... I won’t force you to stay on. In fact, I should’ve never—” 

“Nope. Too late now. You can’t get rid of me.” 

Morisuke lifted his gaze to find Kuroo bearing down on him with an inscrutable nonchalance. It aggravated him, worried him, and—oddly enough—reassured him. “You understand that you’re putting your life in danger,” he said. “Not just yours, but also your friends’ and family’s.” 

“Tell me something I don’t already know, Yaku. I heard that spiel from Chief Nekomata before I met with you. Look what happened to Bokuto anyway.” 

“You remember what I told you, don’t you? Now is the perfect time. Don’t wait until—” 

“Wait,” Kuroo said slowly. “Told me what?” 

Morisuke rolled his eyes in frustration. “When I gave you the assignment. I tell every agent—” He broke off when he recalled how flustered he’d become after their second meeting, where it all began. The good and the bad. “I forgot,” he said. 

_How could I have forgotten?_

“Well, now you remember. So what is it? Don’t wait?” 

“Don’t throw your life away,” Morisuke recited but with less fire than he normally did, not knowing why he suddenly felt like he was standing on loose soil that could liquefy at any moment. “Know when to retreat. It’s over if you die, so no matter what you do, stay alive.” 

He thought about Shibayama and his former agent’s close brush with death. He thought about Daishou and the limbo that his current agent seemed to have entered. He thought about Sera and her brother, the FBI agent who lost his life. And he thought about the new agent beside him, the man he had come to love. How far would he (have to) go to win this wager? 

Kuroo stole a piece of meat from Morisuke’s bowl. “Got it, sir,” he said airily. 

“Do you really get it?” 

“Eating helps you stay alive too,” he quipped, holding up a piece of meat to Morisuke’s mouth. 

Disgusted, Morisuke pushed Kuroo’s hand away and picked up his own chopsticks. The grainy, black-and-white footage of the woman refilling the cup for the man wearing a woolly hat in Iroha Sushi resurfaced in his mind, and he shook his head before he slurped some noodles. How many people had killed using the impassive method of poisoning, and how many people had reacted by committing crimes of passion? Sera had been ready to kill for her brother, all notions of morality abandoned in her gaze when she handed her baton to Morisuke. 

What is a life? 

“What is it like to have a sibling?” Morisuke asked and then clarified, “Just thinking about the FBI brother and sister.” 

Kuroo made a thoughtful sound. “I don’t know. I imagine it’s like me and Kenma? A playmate? Someone you can pester whenever you want? This guy Yamamoto in my forensics group has a younger sister, and he said it’s like having a lifelong friend. Except he also said it’s not quite the same because he doesn’t know how to talk to girls even though he has a sister.” 

“What is he, an idiot?” 

“Yeah, he is. But anyway. I guess it’s different for different people. Another guy I knew in high school said it’s like having a demon in the house. Whatever that means.” 

“Sibling feud?” 

“Maybe. Good thing Kenma and I never fight.” 

“Are you sure that’s what Kenma would say?” 

“Are you doubting me, Yakkun? Want me to call Kenma over so you can ask him yourself?” 

“You know, I bet even real siblings would get annoyed if you keep summoning them like this.” 

“No worries.” Kuroo slung his arm around Morisuke’s shoulder. “I won’t call him over. Not when I finally have you to myself this evening.” He leaned closer while Morisuke glared, feeling as if the kotatsu was scorching not just his legs but also his face. Kuroo quirked his eyebrow and whispered, “So how about that bath?” 

And all Morisuke could think of was how Kuroo would look with his hair wet, how he would feel with his clothes off. Morisuke swallowed. “Finish your dinner first,” he said, his voice not as steady or as forceful as he would’ve liked. Kuroo’s grin grew wider. A Cheshire cat.

  


* * *

  


With Kuroo, height difference taunted Morisuke wherever he went, no matter what he did. It pricked him like a permanent itch here in the bathroom, where everything he tried placed him at the wrong height. Sitting down on the bath stool as Kuroo had done reduced their height difference but not enough for him to put his arms comfortably around Kuroo’s neck. Standing up while Kuroo remained seated swapped their altitudes, but as gratifying as it was to see the view over Kuroo’s head, it was also too awkward to embrace him from behind. So if Morisuke scrubbed Kuroo’s back with the sort of vehemence that turned the other’s skin red and made him whine _can’t you be gentle, Yaku, I have sensitive skin_ , it was entirely his own damn fault for growing that tall. The same couldn’t be said when they switched spots, and Morisuke, feeling smaller than usual, glowered at the bathtub while Kuroo applied soap over his back. 

“How did you get this?” Kuroo asked, tracing the slanted scar on Morisuke’s upper left arm. 

“Hm? Oh. Drug bust three, four years ago? Punk had a knife.” 

Kuroo paused then covered the scar with his hand and gave Morisuke’s arm a light squeeze. “Man, I forget how dangerous your job is sometimes.” 

“Eh, this is nothing. He put up a weak fight. I got shot at once, you know.” 

Kuroo exclaimed, “What?” 

“I was wearing a bulletproof vest, so it just gave me an ugly bruise, but god, it hurt like hell.” 

Sighing, Kuroo ran his hands down Morisuke’s back one more time and proceeded to rinse the soap off with warm water from the bucket. “Yaku, you need to worry less about others and more about yourself.” 

“What? Why? I know I can handle all that field work shit. It’s working at the desk that sucks. I get to kick ass when I’m out in the field.” Morisuke glanced over his shoulder and mocked, “Now you know how bad it can get out there. Want to back out? It’s not too late yet.” 

“Who’s going to look out for you if I quit? Besides, you have my back, I’m sure.” Before Morisuke could digest his words, Kuroo set the empty bucket on the floor and continued, “But next time, please don’t scrub my back like you’re scrubbing a burnt pan. Ow. I should do the same thing to you right now and get my revenge. Teach you a lesson.” 

“Hah. I’d like to see you try. You know you’re a rabbit inside, right?” 

“You’ve never seen Monty Python, have you?” 

“What’re you going to do? Rip my skin off and pour acid over me?” 

“What the hell? Where did you learn such a torture technique? That’s frightening.” 

“Then show me the worst thing you can do, you little kitten.” 

“Oh, I’ll show you, buddy.” 

Kuroo cracked his knuckles, an exaggerated gesture that amused Morisuke in spite of himself. He braced himself for tickling or groping, but he inhaled sharply when Kuroo started to knead the muscles between his shoulder blades in slow circular motions. _Shit, who gave him the right?_ Suppressing the sound bubbling up his throat, Morisuke closed his eyes as his muscle tension eased. 

“How’s this?” Kuroo asked, his warm breath suddenly against Morisuke’s ear. 

“You’re the worst,” Morisuke replied with the bitterness and strength of cotton candy, trying and failing to send a death glare. Kuroo chuckled, aware that he’d won this round, and pulled away slightly, working his hands down Morisuke’s back. Desperate for a distraction to prevent himself from melting, Morisuke focused on the bright yellow duck perched on the ledge of the bathtub and asked, “Why do you have a rubber duck?” 

“Huh? Oh, that duck? I got it when I was in London for a conference.” 

“London? You’ve been to London?” 

“Yeah. Just for a few days. I was mostly stuck inside, listening to boring talks.” 

“But why a rubber duck? Is it a British thing?” 

“I don’t know. I bought it at the airport. It’s wearing a British hat, so I guess it’s British. Maybe it has to do with the duck ponds.” Kuroo’s hands reached Morisuke’s lower back and then slid further down. “Hey Yakkun. Do you realize you have a really nice ass?” 

Morisuke leaped up from the stool, seized the bucket, and dumped it upside down on Kuroo’s head. “Well, _you_ have a very plain haircut, pervert. I’m disappointed now that I’ve seen it.” 

“Ouch. That’s cruel, Yakkun. How could you trample over my self-confidence like that?” 

Ignoring Kuroo, Morisuke stepped into the bathtub and lowered himself into the hot water. He sighed as his body relaxed. He couldn’t remember when he last soaked in a bath like this since his apartment only came with a shower stall so compact that he bumped into the walls every time he raised his elbows, and he hadn’t bothered to visit bath houses or hot springs. 

The water sloshed about as Kuroo settled into the bathtub as well, stretching out his long legs on either side. He planted a kiss on the back of Morisuke’s neck and floated the rubber duck before them. “Have you been to London?” he asked as he wrapped his arms around Morisuke. 

“No.” 

“Do you want to go?” 

“Not really.” 

“Why not?” 

“Not interested. No time. Makes life harder, given my job.” 

Kuroo hummed, busy nibbling at Morisuke’s neck. 

Finding it increasingly difficult to breathe in the heat but determined to _not lose_ , Morisuke flicked water at the rubber duck and asked, “Where else have you been?” 

“Hm? Been where?” Kuroo mumbled against Morisuke’s skin, in between languid kisses that trailed from his neck to his shoulder. 

“Outside of Japan.” 

Kuroo murmured, “You’re asking a lot of questions today.” 

“Yeah? You ask a lot of questions too, so quit complaining.” 

Kuroo sighed, nuzzling Morisuke’s shoulder, and lifted his head. “Uh, let’s see. Zurich, Boston, Singapore. And London. Just those places.” 

“That’s an odd combination.” 

“International conference. My adviser sent me to one every year when I was in grad school.” 

“Oh, those academic conferences. My mom went to a lot of those.” 

“Did she bring you along?” 

“When I was young. I don’t really remember much.” 

“Where do you remember going?” 

“California. Disneyland. I was six or seven for that. I only remember because of the photos.” 

“I want to see those photos.” 

Morisuke splashed water onto Kuroo’s face. In retaliation, Kuroo pulled Morisuke back and tightened his hold. The rubber duck hit the wall of the bathtub and began to sink. Morisuke stopped wriggling, cocooned in comfort and warmth, his back pressed against Kuroo’s front. 

“By the way,” Kuroo said a little hesitantly, after the water became still again. “I’ve never heard you mention your dad.” 

“Oh. He passed away a long time ago. Small intestine cancer, I think it was. A rare one.” 

“Oh, I’m sorry.” 

“It’s fine. I was two when he died, so I barely remember him. It’s different for my mom. She doesn’t grieve in front of me, but I think it took her years before she could talk about him without crying. I only saw her lose control once, back when I was in high school. But she didn’t cry. Just got really drunk and sung a lot of songs. I’m still not sure what triggered it.” 

Morisuke frowned as that evening returned to him in snippets: spilled wine, his mother lying on the couch, a CD playing. She’d said, _You’re leaving, aren’t you?_ He’d replied, _What’re you talking about? I just got home. Stop drinking._ She’d continued, _They all leave. Even the students. They graduate, and then they won’t even return your citations. Ungrateful brats._

“Oh,” said Morisuke. “I think I just figured it out. I was in my last year of high school. It was just a month into the school year, so I didn’t realize it at the time, but my mom must’ve been thinking about me graduating and then moving away for college.” 

“Ah, the growing up part,” said Kuroo. “I think most parents struggle with that. It’s hard for them to let go after eighteen years.” He prodded Morisuke’s cheek. “Make sure to visit your mom more often when she’s well again.” 

“I don’t need you to tell me that,” Morisuke grumbled, feeling a pang of guilt. Then he asked, “What about your parents?” 

“What about them?” 

“What do they do?” 

“Dad’s in middle management. Mom’s a housewife. Real ordinary. Like my hair,” Kuroo added. 

Morisuke couldn’t help but laugh at the sour tone. Turning his head to gaze at Kuroo, he reached up and tangled his fingers in the damp, black hair. “Ordinary is good. I like ordinary,” he said, smiling. “No crazy organizations will come after you.” 

Kuroo’s grumpy expression softened as he threaded his fingers through Morisuke’s. “I’m clearly not ordinary enough then. Or is it Bokuto? It’s because of Bokuto, isn’t it? Seriously, who goes and gets himself into that kind of mess?” 

“Maybe you cursed him by asking him to arrest me. Maybe that was the start of everything.” 

“What? No way.” 

“That house and the workshop hosted there was where one of our agents finally managed to come in contact with the organization. It was literally the starting point. Karma. What a farce,” Morisuke laughed. “It’s your own fault.” 

“I don’t think that’s how cause and effect work.” Kuroo paused. “But I can’t say I regret it. Whatever I did, whatever you did, it brought me to you, and that’s all that matters.” 

Morisuke stared at Kuroo while those words seemed to ring and reverberate. 

It wasn’t inevitable, was it? It wasn’t impossible, was it? 

_And if the story ending with your departure is true,  
How should I learn not to depend on you?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The lyrics at the end are adapted from the same song as the one in the previous chapter. 
> 
> Miscellaneous inspirations:
> 
> 1\. ["Then they won't even return your citations."](http://phdcomics.com/comics/archive.php?comicid=1269)  
> 2\. Hot pot shogun is a shameless product of Gintama episode 25, which is a shameless parody of Death Note.  
> 3\. The rubber duck is borrowed from [a friend](http://archiveofourown.org/users/captainparakeet) who bought one in London. His name is Bill. 
> 
> Omake #heyheyhey
> 
> Kuroo: Hey  
> Yaku: Hey  
> Bokuto: HEY HEY HEY  
> Akaashi: Excuse us. I'll make sure to keep him on a leash next time.


	13. Call

Morisuke stirred, becoming aware of the heartbeats in the rising and falling chest under him. Strong. Steady. A fist-size automaton vital for life. Curling his arms around the warmth, he felt the other’s limbs shift, hands on his bare back. His skin tingled, and his eyes fluttered open. 

“Morning,” said Kuroo. 

Groggy, Morisuke lifted his head briefly and, seeing no clock in the sunlit room, mumbled, “What time is it...” 

“So romantic, Yakkun.” 

Morisuke groaned at the facetious reply and dragged the tangled sheets with him as he rolled off Kuroo. “It’s too early for—ugh, where’s my pillow?” 

“It’s _my_ pillow, and give me back my blanket.” 

“Wha—” 

Kuroo tossed a pillow to Morisuke and yanked on the covers. Some wrestling and a kick later, they settled with the covers rearranged around them, sharing a pillow. 

“Seriously, what time is it?” Morisuke asked when Kuroo placed an arm around him and gave him a peck on the cheek. “Why don’t you have a clock?” 

“So you can’t run away if it strikes twelve.” 

Morisuke stared blankly at Kuroo smirking before he realized it was an allusion to Cinderella. He pinched Kuroo’s arm. 

“Ow, ow, ow! It’s my phone. My clock is my phone. It’s over there.” Wincing, Kuroo pointed at the nightstand on Morisuke’s side, where his black iPhone was. 

A thought occurred to Morisuke as he reached for the phone, which said 7:19 (a little later than he would’ve liked, but there wasn’t much to do today). “Give me your number,” he said, looking at Kuroo, their breaths mingling, while his face grew warm. 

“What?” 

“Your number,” he repeated and shoved the phone at Kuroo. “I’m sick of speaking in codes.” 

Kuroo caught the phone with a bemused expression that transformed into one bearing a wide, stupid, self-satisfied grin. “Does that mean I win?” 

“Win _what_ , you ass?” 

“Why don’t you put in your number?” Kuroo suggested and handed his phone back to Morisuke. 

Greeted a second time by the wallpaper photo of a watchful orange tabby wearing a red scarf, Morisuke asked out of curiosity, “Whose cat is this?” 

“That one? A cat at Mocha Lounge. It’s a cat cafe nearby. We should go there someday.” 

“Mm,” Morisuke said, partly preoccupied with finding the Contacts app in the unfamiliar grid of colorful icons. He was about to tap on the plus sign to add his number when he caught sight of a name he hadn’t expected to see in the list of contacts. “Mika?” 

“Hm? What about Mika?” 

“The Mika who runs Cafe Poirot?” 

“Yeah. You know her?” 

“How do you know her?” 

“My mom and her mom are best friends. They even wanted to become in-laws, but that’s clearly never gonna happen. I don’t actually know her that well. How do _you_ know her?” 

Morisuke entered his contact information and answered belatedly, “Uh, I know her boyfriend.” 

“What? Boyfriend? You don’t mean that snake Daishou, do you? She really should dump him. Poor auntie if she ends up with that pathetic son-in-law. Wait, how do you know _him_?” Morisuke didn’t reply, chewing his lip as he sent himself the text message _Kuroo is a dickhead_ , and Kuroo cried out, “Yakkun! Why couldn’t you have said ‘Tetsurou has nice hair’ or something?” 

Morisuke snorted and then hissed as he wrenched Kuroo’s wandering hand from his inner thigh, simultaneously flinging the phone at Kuroo’s face. 

Fumbling for his phone lost in the folds, Kuroo grumbled, “I liked you more last night.” 

Morisuke turned away and burrowed under the covers, pretending not to have heard what Kuroo said and didn’t say, but it was suddenly too hot as everything they had exchanged in whispers and moans the night before now sounded louder than the rapid pulses in his ears. So he sprung out of bed, accidentally (or maybe not so accidentally) smacking Kuroo’s head with the blanket, and cursed the plunge in temperature when the soles of his feet hit the frigid floor. Ignoring Kuroo’s calls to lure him back to the warm bed, he snatched one of the towels from the floor to wrap around himself, however cold it was, and set off to find his clothes.

  


* * *

  


Dressed and freshened up, Morisuke sat at the kotatsu in the living room, nursing a cup of instant coffee, while the totally not lovable loser who didn’t own a coffee maker prepared breakfast in the kitchen. _Loser and sap_ , he amended, affronted by the extra message that Kuroo had sent after his: _And Yakkun is a cutie._

“I am not,” he muttered as he saved Kuroo’s number under the entry _Loser Tetsurou_. 

To pass time and to take his mind off unnecessary things, he opened the news feed on his phone and scrolled past the usual drama and absurdity until a headline jumped out at him: _Death of Beika Univ. Professor Linked to Oikawa’s Corruption Scandal_. 

According to the article, computer science professor and former video game developer Itakura Suguru was found dead in a room at Hotel New Beika yesterday afternoon. Although he died of a heart attack, further investigation revealed that he’d been tied up before his death and thus prevented from taking the medication for his heart condition. The culprit, identified by a private investigator, was Souma Ryuusuke, a manager at the video game company Harusame Inc., who had commissioned Itakura to develop a virtual reality game. As Souma claimed that he was framed and Harusame was under investigation for its financial ties with Oikawa Tooru, the investigators were now looking into possible connections between the two cases. 

Morisuke read the article twice. A computer science professor at Beika University. Itakura. Didn’t Michimiya mention that name? He was dead? What the fuck? 

“What’re you reading?” Kuroo asked and placed a tray in front of Morisuke. 

“The news,” Morisuke murmured. He looked up from his phone, taken aback by the traditional Japanese breakfast consisting of rice, tamagoyaki, miso soup, and pickled vegetables. After Kuroo returned with a second tray, he asked, “Is this what you eat every morning?” 

“Pretty much. Sometimes I have fish instead of eggs though. What news were you reading?” 

Biting into a roll of sweet omelet, Morisuke handed his phone to Kuroo. 

A few moments later, Kuroo asked, still reading, “Was Itakura your mom’s colleague?” 

“I think so. The timing really bothers me. My mom’s student said that he knew the most about ASACA after my mom. I can’t shake the feeling that his death actually has to do with ASACA.” 

“You know what’s weird?” said Kuroo. “It usually takes Division One more than twenty-four hours to crack a murder case. It’s only been, what, twelve? Who is this private investigator?” 

“Maybe that’s why Souma said he was framed. It’s all very suspicious. Who wrote the article?” 

“Er...” Kuroo scrolled to the top of the page. “Misaki Hana.” 

“Misaki Hana?” Morisuke grabbed his phone back to verify the kanji, unable to believe his stroke of luck. There were a few journalists who also worked as informants for the PSB, and Misaki was one of them. Terushima would have her contact information. 

“You know her?” asked Kuroo. 

“Sort of. In the sense that I should be able to get inside information from her.” 

“Hmm...” Kuroo fixed Morisuke with an unconvinced stare and slurped his soup. “You never told me how you met Daishou,” he said suddenly. “You didn’t have a fling with him, did you?” 

Morisuke started to say _what the fuck_ but ended up coughing up the rice that went down his windpipe. Kuroo leaned over to clap Morisuke on the back, saying something that sounded like “Gross, Yakkun,” and Morisuke just wanted to stab him with the chopsticks in his hand. “Fuck no,” he finally replied after he recovered and wiped his hands clean. “Who would—how do you even... I don’t want to know how your mind works, honestly.” 

“But I want to know how you know him, and you’re not telling me.” 

Morisuke narrowed his eyes. “Are you jealous?” 

“No, I’m not,” he said a little too quickly. “I just wish I met you earlier.” 

And the sincerity in that declaration stole every word from Morisuke even though a part of him knew how to respond to that. But whether it was the romantic or the rational part of him, he couldn’t tell for sure. The moment was ruined, however, when Kuroo smirked, saying _I love making you speechless, Yakkun._ He kicked Kuroo, who bumped his knee on the kotatsu either to dodge or to retaliate, an action that caused the dishes to clatter. 

“Alright, no horsing around,” Kuroo said, trying not to laugh but failing miserably. 

“What?” asked Morisuke. 

“Nothing. I just remembered Bokuto...” Kuroo snickered, obviously amused by something, which turned out to be The First Kotatsu Disaster as Morisuke learned. (Was there a second?) 

One story led to another, from test tube incidents to 4 a.m. trips to Denny’s with his lab mates in grad school. For better or for worse, Morisuke didn’t get a chance to explain Daishou’s role in their case. He still couldn’t decide if he should or shouldn’t reveal Daishou’s mission to Kuroo; he hadn’t planned to, but he hadn’t expected them to know each other either. It would become incredibly complicated if their paths crossed without warning inside the organization. 

If. 

Morisuke could only hope that it would never happen.

  


* * *

  


They took separate subway lines later—Morisuke to Beika and Kuroo to Teitan University. 

“Alas, I have a group meeting this morning,” he’d told Morisuke after reluctantly breaking their kiss in the kitchen. “It’s a joint meeting with Wakasa Rumi’s group, so it should be interesting.” There was no Miyano Shiho in the biochemistry department or the Teitan University directory, he’d added, surprising Morisuke by how much he’d dug into. Neither her name nor APTX 4869 had appeared in the results of his literature search, so either she wasn’t active in the scientific community or she was publishing under a pseudonym. 

“Try the last name Hirota,” Morisuke had suggested. “That’s what her sister used.” 

Spotting a telephone box on his way to Beika General Hospital, Morisuke hesitated before he pushed open the glass door and brought up the Tottori number he’d obtained from Sugawara. He still had no idea what to say to Miyano Akemi, alias Hirota Masami, but in light of the latest developments, there was something he wanted to check. He dialed the number from the pay phone and, his heart pounding, confirmed his suspicion when the call failed to connect. He tried again, taking care to punch the correct buttons. The same beeps of a disconnected line. 

He replaced the receiver and took a deep breath. Time for a different call. Lifting the receiver, he inserted another coin and dialed Sugawara’s office number as listed in the Beika University directory. Sugawara answered after two rings. “Hi, Suga-kun,” he said. “It’s me, Yaku.” 

“Oh, Yaku-kun! I was just thinking I should’ve gotten your number the other day. How are you?” 

“How are _you_? I saw the news this morning. I’m really sorry.” 

Sugawara winced audibly. “Ah, that... It’s... It’s a shock to the entire department, especially his students and Michimiya. They’re still trying to cope. I’m not sure what’s going to happen next, but the university is doing its best to be supportive.” He paused. When he resumed, his voice remained solemn but gained a trace of unease. “Actually, I want to talk to you about ASACA.” 

“ASACA?” 

“Remember how ASACA shut herself down when you were here? It’s gotten a bit complicated. We haven’t been able to reboot her system at all. It looks like her kernel’s been corrupted.” 

“What? It wasn’t because of me, was it?” 

“Huh? No, not at all. I did look into that, by the way. We managed to retrieve the log files, and apparently Chizuru-sensei was the one who didn’t want you to hear ASACA’s song. It was hard-coded into the program. I don’t know why she did that. Her only comment was ‘Do not delete this line or be prepared to suffer the wrath of a thousand angry cats.’ It was... very sensei-like. Anyway. What happened to ASACA was something like a virus attack. When we went through the log files, we found... we found someone installed a program called ‘A song _for_ ASACA.’” 

Morisuke tightened his grip on the receiver, his other hand twisting and tugging the phone cord. His mother’s decision had confused him. Triggered an unexpected and unfounded sense of loneliness. But dread filled him at the mention of the program name. _It wasn’t a mistake?_

“When you asked me about a song for ASACA,” Sugawara was saying, “I thought you mixed up the prepositions. I was wrong. I’m not sure what it is, but it breached several layers of firewall and got installed on ASACA on Sunday night. It was activated when we tried to reboot ASACA. How did you find out about it?” 

“It...” Morisuke’s mouth felt dry. His mind raced, rifling through the jumble of information—the memory stick, Bokuto, APTX 4869, the Miyanos, Miya, his mother, ASACA... “All I know is that it was some sort of encrypted file. A tar.gz file. I don’t have it. I just heard about it.” 

“Well, that’s just a compressed archive file, so it could be anything.” A pause. “I would ask how you heard about it, but I’m guessing this is a police matter and you can’t tell me?” 

Morisuke swallowed. “I’m really sorry. It... It’s really—” 

“It’s okay, you know. I have a guess as to who wrote the program. I just didn’t want to—given what happened yesterday... There aren’t that many people who know our firewalls so well, and even fewer who know ASACA so well. I just don’t understand why he would do this.” 

“You think it’s Itakura.” 

A long pause, and then a quiet “Yes.” 

Sugawara started to say something else, but Morisuke interrupted, “Do you know who had been in contact with Itakura about ASACA? People outside your department? Or in...” _Hirota. Landau._ “I mean... When I saw the news, I thought of ASACA, but...” 

“I think I know what you mean,” Sugawara said, although he sounded uncertain. “I’m afraid I don’t have an answer for you. Itakura-sensei never mentioned anything. Not to me, but I didn’t work that closely with him. His students might know, but it might be a bad time to ask.” 

“Does that mean you don’t know much about Souma Ryuusuke then?” Morisuke asked and then wondered if the police had questioned the people in the department already. 

“No, I don’t. In fact, I had no idea Itakura-sensei was developing a VR game. He used to work in computer graphics, but he quit because his eyesight was getting worse. So I was surprised.” 

“Computer graphics?” 

“He was a pretty famous researcher in that field before he switched to AI. I can imagine why people interested in VR would want to recruit someone of his caliber. On the other hand, I can’t imagine why it would have anything to do with ASACA or damaging her like this.” 

“Me neither,” Morisuke murmured. “Hey, Suga-kun?” he said, voice softening. “I really appreciate this. And I’m sorry. I hope Michimiya is doing okay. And everyone else.” 

“Thanks,” Sugawara replied, and Morisuke could hear the smile. “We’ll be fine.” 

“One last thing,” said Morisuke. It was actually two, but he decided not to bring up Hirota. “Could you and Michimiya stop working on ASACA for a while? I’m worried. First, it was my mom. And now Itakura. I don’t want anything to happen to you or Michimiya.” 

“But Chizuru-sensei—wait, it wasn’t a stroke?” 

“I don’t know,” Morisuke said hurriedly, realizing his slip. “Maybe... Don’t say this to anyone.” 

“Got it. Well, with ASACA offline, there’s not much we can do anyway. I guess it’s a good time to finish the paper we’ve been putting off and... enjoy Christmas? It’s almost winter break.” 

Morisuke smiled in spite of himself. “That sounds perfect.”


	14. Collect

He was in the middle of writing up the overdue report on the past five days when the phone in his pocket buzzed.

> [Loser Tetsurou]  
>  wanna get dinner in nakameguro tonight?  
>  01:40 PM  
> 

Morisuke mouthed a baffled _what_ to himself, irked that his initial reaction was still to treat Kuroo’s message as a secret code, and replied: _Why?_

> [Loser Tetsurou]  
>  we were talking abt nakameguro jewel dome at group mtg  
>  wanna go see xmas lights?  
>  01:42 PM
> 
>                      Why were you talking about jewel dome at group meeting  
>                       01:42 PM
> 
> we can go to meguro sky garden too if u get off early  
>  sunset is at 4:30  
>  its winter solstice today  
>  someone in the group went there on sat and was showing pics  
>  01:44 PM
> 
>                      Is this a date  
>                       01:45 PM
> 
> (づ￣ ³￣)づ  
>  01:45 PM  
> 

Despite the flutter in his stomach, Morisuke made a face at his phone and tossed it onto his desk. He stared at the document on his computer screen, trying to focus on the task at hand, but the text seemed as foreign as the Cyrillic script. What was he writing again?

His phone buzzed, this time producing a resonant vibration on the metal surface. Startled, he snatched up his phone and caught Kai’s curious then amused look. “Sorry,” he muttered. 

It was his second apology to Kai that day, delivered in the same sheepish tone as the first one, which he’d offered when he saw Kai after his trip to the hospital, for his outburst yesterday. Kai had apologized as well, the gracious bastard, even though Morisuke recognized, in hindsight, the dilemma Kai had faced when he lacked firm evidence in that type of situation. After all, Morisuke had made a similar decision in regard to the encounter with Miya. 

He set his phone on silent and read the new message.

> [Loser Tetsurou]  
>  so do u wanna go?  
>  01:50 PM  
> 

Sighing, he considered his plan for the afternoon and replied: _Meet me at blue parrot at 3:30._

> [Loser Tetsurou]  
>  ohoho getting drunk so early today, yakkun?  
>  u arent fun when u r drunk tho  
>  01:55 PM
> 
>                      What the fuck I’m not drinking today  
>                       01:55 PM
> 
> then why blue parrot  
>  01:56 PM
> 
>                      Either that or I meet you at nakameguro station at 6  
>                       01:57 PM
> 
> what why!!  
>  ok ill go to blue parrot  
>  no drinking  
>  01:59 PM  
> 

Morisuke rolled his eyes and returned to the blinking cursor, determined to finish a draft of his report in the next half hour before he had to leave for Beika. Blue Parrot opened at 3 p.m., and he wanted to talk to Terushima before the bar filled with patrons.

  


* * *

  


He arrived on the dot. His report was far from done, but he’d dumped everything he’d learned into a disordered list, during which he’d noticed an oddity. Why would Miyano Akemi gift two opera tickets to his mother? If his mother was supposed to attend the opera, why would the organization then take her out—assuming that they did? If the tickets were part of a bribe (and a weak one at that), why would his mother accept them? Or was it a bona fide gift? 

Terushima gaped at Morisuke as if he’d just stepped out of a time machine. “It’s not Friday,” said the bartender, dumbfounded. “I don’t know what drink to serve you, dude.” 

“I’m not here for a drink,” Morisuke replied as he perched himself on the vinyl stool across the otherwise empty counter from Terushima. “I’m here for something else. Someone, rather.” 

“Oh yeah? Who?” 

“Misaki Hana. She wrote a very interesting news article for today.” 

Terushima looked intrigued. “Oh, that case. Want me to give her a call or something?” 

“Could you? Hold on, do _you_ know anything about the case?” 

“Nope,” Terushima answered, moving to one end of the bar counter. “Just—” 

Someone pulled open the heavy door to the bar and stepped in, his face obscured by a pair of large sunglasses. He jerked to a stop near the entrance and appeared to have fixed his gaze on Morisuke, who frowned trying to work out why he seemed so familiar. Was it the slick hair? 

“Whew,” said Terushima. “Your old friend is here.” 

_Old friend?_ Morisuke’s eyes widened as he realized who that person was. 

Daishou made a beeline for Morisuke and hissed, “What are you doing here?” 

“Where have _you_ been?” Morisuke snapped back, wrinkling his nose at Daishou’s cologne. 

“Hey friends,” Terushima interrupted. “I’m expecting paying customers any minute now. Go duke it out elsewhere.” He indicated the entryway below the TV. “There’s a karaoke room in the back. It’s soundproof. Want some nachos while you’re at it?” 

Nettled but grateful, Morisuke exchanged a knowing look with Terushima and then Daishou and hopped off the stool. He paused halfway to the entryway, suddenly remembering Kuroo, and said to Terushima, “If someone comes looking for me, tell him to wait out here.” 

“Okey-doke,” Terushima said with a raised eyebrow. “Still interested in chatting with my girl?” 

Morisuke’s frown deepened. After a quick deliberation, he said, “Give me fifteen minutes or so.” Terushima gave a thumbs-up, and Morisuke hurried down the corridor to the karaoke room. 

Daishou had removed his sunglasses and was smoothing his hair in front of a reflective panel. 

Suppressing the urge to interject the comment _Mika isn’t here so nobody cares how you look_ , Morisuke took a seat on one of the leather couches when a worrisome possibility struck him. “How do I know you are who you seem to be?” he asked after Daishou sat down across from him. “Yank on your nose to make sure your face is not a mask?” 

“A bit late for that, isn’t it?” said Daishou. “You would’ve exposed us both already. But if you really want proof... How about this story from the old academy days? Are you over Nishinoya yet? Am I still the only one in the world who dares to bring up his name in front of you?” 

Morisuke scowled. “I’ve forgotten how much of a prick you are.” 

“It was quite the romantic history. I don’t know why you—” 

“You can stop talking now,” Morisuke warned, trying to ignore the tightness in his chest. 

Daishou flashed a shrewd smile. “You still suck at handling things that involve you emotionally. Any sensible person would’ve let me finish to make sure I wasn’t bluffing.” 

“Like you’re any better, you scum. Were you the one who gave Mika that envelope?” 

Daishou blinked. “Of course. Who else—you thought someone else gave it to her?” 

“What was in it?” 

“Oh, I see what you’re doing. Two tickets to _The Nightingale_. A note that said ASACA. Correct? Speaking of ASACA, I have another message for you.” 

“What?” Morisuke prompted, relieved that the organization hadn’t used Mika for their aims. 

“They’re afraid of ASACA,” said Daishou. “At first I thought they were interested in ASACA, but that’s not it. Good for you—your mom’s not a member. But it explains what happened to her.” 

Morisuke waited for the meaning of those words to catch up with their sounds, the inevitable crash of thunder following a flash of lightning. When it did, he could visualize the flow chart of the algorithm to eliminate, one by one, the people developing ASACA and ASACA itself. “That doesn’t explain the Landau Foundation,” he said. “They wanted to fund ASACA.” 

_Or was it actually money to halt the research program?_

“The Landau Foundation?” Daishou asked. “What does that have to do with this?” 

Morisuke stared at him as if he’d just asked, out of ignorance, what one plus one equaled. Then Morisuke remembered that this was Kai’s recent speculation. “The Landau Foundation might have something to do with the organization,” he explained. “Could you look into that?” 

“Huh,” said Daishou. “You haven’t been idle. What else have you learned?” 

_Miya._ “Who’s Moscato?” 

“Moscato? Is that a code name?” 

“You don’t know?” 

“Doesn’t sound familiar, but then again, I don’t know all the code name members.” 

“How about Sherry?” 

“Hm, I heard Gin mention that name once in the context of new poisons. But that’s all I know. That reminds me. You can cross Rye off the list of recon members.” 

“Why?” 

“He’s dead. He was an FBI mole.” 

“That was him?” Morisuke exclaimed. 

“Have you dealt with him?” 

Morisuke hesitated. “I met his sister.” 

“Are you serious? That FBI mole had a sister? Who is she?” Daishou demanded. 

“Sera Masumi. But she should’ve been deported or will be soon, so I doubt we’ll see her again. She’s the one who informed me about Sherry. In fact, here are a few names for you. Sherry is Miyano Shiho. She made the poison APTX 4869. Her sister Miyano Akemi also uses the name Hirota Masami. Their mother Miyano Elena is Hell Angel. Any of these ring a bell?” 

“I know Miyano Akemi. She was Rye’s girlfriend. She’s not a code name member, though.” 

Morisuke’s heart thumped. “Anything else?” 

“I heard she was the one who killed Rye. Pretty heartless. But he did use her to join the org.” 

“She gave my mom two tickets to _The Nightingale_. What’s so interesting about that opera?” 

“I don’t know why she gave your mom the tickets, but reportedly ‘that person’ will be there.” 

“The leader of the organization?” 

“Right. That’s why I bought you the tickets.” 

Morisuke lowered his voice. “Why did you disappear for three weeks and drag Mika into this?” 

Daishou’s expression darkened as he leaned forward. “The org got wind of moles and traitors. I risked my neck for that intel on Rum just around the time they started hunting for the spy. It was either me or Rye. I had to make it look like he was responsible for what I was doing.” 

“You made him a scapegoat?” 

“Hey, it was my life or his. We wouldn’t be here having this conversation if I hadn’t done that.” Something must’ve shown on Morisuke’s face even though his mind was blank except for the snapshot of Sera’s reddened eyes because Daishou added, “It’s not like you to be this soft. He was FBI. Not one of us. Besides, what kind of person was he if his _girlfriend_ poisoned him?” 

_And what kind of person was he if his sister was Sera Masumi?_

“No matter what you do, stay alive,” Daishou quoted. “Your words.” 

The wall telephone in the room rang before Morisuke could sort out his thoughts, the shrill sound causing both of them to jump. On the third ring, Morisuke answered warily, “Hello?” 

“I found you a flower girl for your wedding,” Terushima said over the background noise. 

“What?” 

“ _Flower_ girl? You said you were looking for one? She’s on the line.” 

“Wha—” _Oh. Flower. Hana. Misaki._ “Oh, right. Yes. I’ll... I’ll talk to her.” Morisuke glanced at Daishou, who rose to his feet, waved, and muttered, “I’m off.” 

“Hello?” said a crisp, feminine voice through the receiver, clear above the silence. 

“Uh, hi... Um...” Could he state her name? Terushima had been speaking in code, but—

“This is Misaki Hana,” she said, resolving his conundrum. “Terushima-kun told me that you wanted to ask me about the Itakura case. I’ll answer what I know, so please go ahead.” 

“I appreciate this,” Morisuke said while his mind scrambled to string together words that weren’t ASACA to form a coherent question. “Does—is Itakura’s death really related to Oikawa Tooru? To put it another way, why did Souma Ryuusuke kill Itakura?” 

“That’s unclear. Souma says he didn’t kill anyone, but the evidence against him is quite solid.” 

“What evidence?” 

“Itakura was bound to a chair, but apparently he was still able to move his feet. There was a go board in the room, and he used the go stones to spell out Souma’s name in braille. That alone isn’t sufficient, of course. Itakura’s fingerprints were also found on Souma’s new watch, which, the detective argued, is conclusive evidence that Souma had met with Itakura before he died.” 

Morisuke furrowed his brows, not sure if he was convinced. “Who was the detective?” 

“Do you know the name Kudo Shinichi? He was very famous about ten years ago.” 

“Kudo?” 

“High school detective. Savior of the Japanese police. Heisei Holmes.” 

“Him!” said Morisuke as he recalled the splash the teenager had made every few months back when he was in high school. Half the girls in his class had been in love with the detective (the other half had been in love with a phantom thief). It was a frenzy he never understood, even—especially—after he’d spent a full ten seconds studying the front-page photo of the detective, wondering how anyone could label that arrogant, flawless face “good-looking” or “attractive.” Not to mention that dumb cowlick. 

“He’s back?” Morisuke asked. The media hype had stopped after Kudo left to attend university in the United States; ever since then, the media had only mentioned the name Kudo Yusaku, the father of Kudo Shinichi and a renowned novelist, as part of his book promotion campaigns until that, too, stopped following his death in a car crash earlier this year. 

“He is,” said Misaki. “He’s been back since April, but he’s kept a very low profile.” 

“I guess he’s mellowed. I would’ve expected someone like him to be all over the news.” 

“I get the impression from talking to him that he doesn’t want to compete with the negative press coverage of Oikawa. It’s interesting. This case would’ve been sensational either way, but it would’ve never been about Itakura, the victim.” 

Morisuke narrowed his eyes. “What exactly is the connection to Oikawa?” 

“That’s still under police investigation. It sounds like it has something to do with the game that Itakura developed for Souma, but I’m afraid I don’t know the details. Inspector Iwaizumi is less enthusiastic about talking to the press than Inspector Megure and Kudo-kun. He doesn’t do it unless it’s absolutely necessary, and it’s always very well-rehearsed.” 

“I see,” said Morisuke. Maybe Iwaizumi would be more enthusiastic about talking to the PSB. And more spontaneous. “Thank you, Misaki-san. Can I contact you if I have more questions?” 

“Of course. Let me give you a number so you don’t have to deal with Terushima-kun.” 

Morisuke took down the number, cringing internally when he saw that the time was 3:38 p.m. He thanked Misaki again, ended the call—his head swimming—and strode out to the bar. 

Kuroo was seated on the bar stool nearest the entryway, drinking a glass of orange juice and looking thoroughly bored with his chin propped up on his hand. His gaze shifted from the TV to Morisuke. “You’re late,” he remarked, swiveling on the stool as Morisuke walked up to him. 

Despite facing Kuroo at eye level, Morisuke felt tiny. “Yeah, I know. Sorry. It took longer than I thought.” He moved closer to stand between Kuroo’s legs, and Kuroo took his hand. 

“You’ll just have to make it up to me later.” 

“Yeah, okay, fine,” Morisuke said automatically and wondered if he would regret agreeing to whatever Kuroo was plotting behind that lazy smirk. 

“So what were you doing back there? All the bartender dude would tell me was that you were ‘busy.’” 

“I was talking to the reporter,” Morisuke decided to say. “Remember the article this morning?” 

Kuroo’s look of mock suspicion transformed into one of genuine surprise. He peered around Morisuke as if he was trying to catch sight of a celebrity and blurted out, “She’s here?” 

“On the phone, you idiot.” 

“Oh. You came all the way here to make a phone call?” 

Morisuke heaved a sigh. “I’ll explain everything, just not here. Are we going to the sky garden or not?” 

Kuroo downed the rest of his orange juice by way of responding. On their way out, Morisuke nodded to Terushima, who gave him a grin while handing a couple of pool cues to a customer, and he slipped his hand into Kuroo’s once they were outside.


	15. Coupled

Like the thin clouds floating high overhead, Meguro Sky Garden seemed distant from the rush of traffic and the hectic life within walls despite sitting atop the junction of two expressways. It spiraled down from the ninth floor to the third, the sloped rooftop garden more brown than green in the winter. Kuroo tugged on Morisuke’s hand, and they strolled down a winding path, past pine trees and yellow grass, to a bench where they could watch the sun set behind Mount Fuji. 

“We should take a picture together,” Kuroo declared and whipped out his phone as they sat down on the bench. He looped his arm around Morisuke, eliciting a muffled protest when Morisuke suddenly found part of his face buried in the smooth fabric of Kuroo’s jacket. “Smile, Yakkun! Why do you look so annoyed? Do I have to tickle you?” 

Morisuke turned his head to the camera and thought he looked more flustered than annoyed, which annoyed him a little. Seeing and sensing the motion, he glanced up just as Kuroo leaned down to kiss his forehead. 

“C’mon, let’s take a nice picture,” Kuroo said with a hopeful grin and patted Morisuke’s arm. 

He would rather kiss than pose for a stupid selfie, but Morisuke suppressed a sigh and settled into a more comfortable position, hugging Kuroo. Smiling for the camera was easier this way, and his smile grew wider, maybe warmer, when Kuroo said “Yay” in a silly, happy drawl. The shutter clicked. Then it clicked again. But the second time it did, Kuroo pulled a face as if he’d just discovered a tarantula on the crown of Morisuke’s head where he’d held up a victory sign. 

“What is that face?” Morisuke blurted out, laughing, and swiped at Kuroo’s head. 

“A nice picture and a fun picture,” Kuroo said as he tugged Morisuke closer, scrolling back and forth between the two photos that captured a softer shade of the colors in the reddish orange sunlight. 

“You mean a weird picture,” said Morisuke. “Makes me wonder what other weird pictures you have on your phone.” 

In response, Kuroo scrolled to the next photo that showed a creepy Santa Claus statue clad in tiger-patterned, close-fitting tank top and shorts, standing with his arms spread. “Ho ho ho,” Kuroo mimicked. “Come at me, bitches.” 

Morisuke burst into laughter. “Where the heck was this?” 

“Shiodome. We went there for Akaashi’s birthday dinner. Caretta Illumination is nice. We should go there too.” Kuroo nudged Morisuke as he showed him the photos of a sea of blue LEDs washing against a dozen lit Christmas trees followed by the dinner group in an izakaya. Morisuke recognized Akaashi and Bokuto (and Kuroo, of course), but not the other three (“The Division Three Musketeers,” Kuroo introduced). 

After that were photos of cats and Kenma focused on a handheld game console in a corner of the cat cafe, fall foliage, someone with bright orange hair pieing Bokuto in Kuroo’s living room and getting pied in return and Kenma looking like he wanted to move to a different planet... 

“Hey, Yakkun, what weird pictures do _you_ have on your phone?” 

“No pictures.” 

“No pictures? None?” Kuroo paused on a photo of Bokuto picking at a plate of olives with a dejected expression and stared at Morisuke, who reached for his phone to prove his point. 

“None,” Morisuke said after he opened the empty album. 

Kuroo glanced at the silver Xperia, skeptical. “You’re not using your work phone to trick me, are you?” 

“Hah.” Morisuke pulled out his black Xperia, showed Kuroo another empty album, and shoved both phones back into his pockets. Belatedly, he noticed that the path lights in the garden and the city lights around them had switched on, that the sun had disappeared behind Mount Fuji silhouetted against a red sky filled with darkening clouds. 

“Sunset with Yakkun,” Kuroo said, snapping a picture of the western sky. 

“The sun already set.” 

“Twilight then.” Kuroo tucked his phone away and gestured to Morisuke. “Move down a bit.” 

“What? Why?” 

“I want to do something,” Kuroo said, smirking and pushing lightly on Morisuke’s shoulder. 

“Do what?” Morisuke asked suspiciously as he edged toward the end of the bench. 

Kuroo flopped down on the bench and rested his head on Morisuke’s lap. He grinned. “This.” 

“Are you a cat?” Morisuke exclaimed. 

“Maybe in a past life.” 

Morisuke rolled his eyes at both the reply and the fact that Kuroo’s left foot was on the ground and his right foot was on the bench, which wasn’t long enough for him. 

“You love me,” Kuroo added cheekily. 

“Hmph.” Morisuke looked away but ran his fingers through Kuroo’s hair and left them there while Kuroo played with his other hand, at times caressing it and at times studying it as if he could read the lines on Morisuke’s palm in the dim yellow light. 

The breeze brought a chill, carrying the indistinct city hum without the scattered chatter of the other visitors from earlier. And with the newfound seclusion, Morisuke remembered what he needed to explain but couldn’t back on the clanking, crowded train. 

“So—” he said at the same time Kuroo said, “Yaku—” 

Their eyes met. 

“Uh,” said Kuroo. “You go first.” When Morisuke didn’t continue, hesitant although he couldn’t articulate why (something about the way Kuroo had said his name), Kuroo added, “I was... just going to ask you about earlier. At the bar.” 

“Oh,” said Morisuke, more taken aback than relieved by their synchronicity this time. “Yeah. That’s what I was going to bring up as well.” 

Kuroo smiled in amusement, presumably for the same reason that had surprised Morisuke, and kissed a spot below Morisuke’s thumb. 

Curling his fingers in Kuroo’s hair, Morisuke replayed the conversations he had at Blue Parrot and proceeded to explain the role of the bar as a safe house for PSB agents. The code phrase was _a meetup place for friends_. “And Misaki Hana is an informant,” he said but noted that he had to wait until a meeting with Division Two tomorrow to confirm (or refute) the connection between Itakura’s murder and ASACA. “That private eye was Kudo Shinichi, by the way.” 

Kuroo gave him an incredulous look. “Whoa, shit, really? I remember hearing about him in high school, but he’s also this urban legend in Division One. I guess it makes more sense now.” 

“What does?” 

“That they solved the case so quickly.” Kuroo poked Morisuke’s chest. “Now I know why you keep going to that bar, but it makes me feel like an idiot. What’re you going to do about this? Hm? Hmm?” 

“You were an idiot to begin with,” Morisuke deadpanned. 

Kuroo put on a shocked expression and then a wounded one and mumbled something. 

“What is it, loser? Spit it out.” 

“Ow, ow!” Kuroo grasped the hand that was yanking on his hair while keeping the other hand in his grip and fixed Morisuke with a playful glare. “You said you’ll make it up to me.” 

_I never said that_ , Morisuke thought pedantically but replied, “Yeah? Well, what do you want?” Idly, Morisuke wondered how he would respond if Kuroo proposed something outrageous—or how outrageous it could get without overstepping the bounds of what he was willing to do. Kinks were one thing; murder was another. 

“Can I visit your apartment?” Kuroo asked. 

“What?” 

“I really want to see what your place looks like.” 

“That’s it?” 

Kuroo’s lips curved into a crooked smile. “Oho? What were you expecting? Let’s hear it, Yakkun. We can do it too. No problem.” 

Morisuke wrenched his hands out of Kuroo’s, glad that the shadows hid his flaming cheeks, and shoved Kuroo off his lap. 

Chuckling, Kuroo got to his feet, stretched, and said, “Want to head over to Nakameguro?” 

“Fine.” Morisuke zipped up his jacket, feeling more exposed to the cool air all of the sudden, and took Kuroo’s outstretched hand.

  


* * *

  


Neither of them mentioned anything related to the case on the walk along Meguro River to the Nakameguro Jewel Dome, which was a dazzling but teeming segment of the river bank where tens of thousands of golden lights illuminated the cherry blossom trees. They talked about flower viewing, argued over the best location for it, shared stories from their student days, disagreed on whether the Blue Cave Illumination suited Nakameguro or Shibuya and how it compared to the Jewel Dome... 

“Anyway, Shinjuku’s is better,” Morisuke concluded on one of the overcrowded bridges, squeezed between the railing and Kuroo, who was taking pictures of the canal-like river reflecting the canopy of glittering gold. “Less crowded. More colors.” 

“You live in Shinjuku,” Kuroo said flatly. 

“Yeah. It’s nicer than Ikebukuro,” Morisuke remarked and twisted his head, smiling at Kuroo’s accusatory look. “Didn’t you want to visit?” 

Kuroo perked up. “Why, Yakkun,” he said as he closed his arms around Morisuke. “If you wanted to invite me to your place, you should’ve just said so.” 

Morisuke replied in a loud, indignant voice, “Who’s inviting you? You were the one who invited yourself, you bastard. Take it or leave it. I don’t actually give a shit.” He squirmed when Kuroo planted a kiss on his temple with a complacent air as if he knew about the treacherous flutter in Morisuke’s stomach and the unacknowledged sentiment beneath the scowl. It simply wasn’t fair. 

But few things were, if any. 

The heavy weight of reality descended upon him after a simple dinner at a ramen house by the river and a pleasant detour to the winter illumination south of the Shinjuku station. It settled between them, along with a break in their conversation about trivial topics. As they cut through a small park in the quiet residential neighborhood, Morisuke found his thoughts drifting to his mother and felt an irrational sense of guilt surging like the high tides. 

“Yaku.” 

Morisuke nearly stopped. His grip on Kuroo’s hand had tightened—or maybe it was the other way around because Kuroo sounded strangely subdued. “Yeah?” he said. 

“About Rum,” Kuroo began, not looking at Morisuke. “How sure are we that this person is a professor at Teitan?” 

“What do you mean?” 

“I mean, they are all...” Kuroo scratched his head, ruffling his hair to the extent that birds could probably nest in it. “They all seem like really nice people.” 

Morisuke sighed at the argument that was about as persuasive as _people use computers, therefore computers represent human progress_. He let go of Kuroo’s hand to dig into his pocket for his keys as they arrived at his apartment, and said, “If all criminals twirled their mustaches like comic book villains, it would be a lot easier to nab them. Are you seriously casting doubt on this just because they were _nice_ to you at your first meeting? Don’t forget that they probably know who you are. I’d put on a nice act too if I were them.” 

“It’s not that. It’s...” Kuroo’s voice trailed off when Morisuke opened the door and flipped the light switches. “Whoa, you weren’t kidding when you said your apartment was small. It’s tiny.” 

Morisuke slammed the door shut, locked it, and aimed his knee at Kuroo’s butt. 

“Holy crap!” Kuroo stumbled forward, tripping over the shoes he’d just removed and the step in the cramped foyer. He peeked at Morisuke, his eyes widening in realization, and covered his mouth. “Oops,” he muttered and glanced about the long, rectangular studio apartment. “Uh, I mean, it’s... er...” 

“Save it,” Morisuke said darkly and pushed Kuroo aside as he moved down the narrow hallway beside the bathroom, through the kitchenette, and into the bedroom. 

“Yakkun, are you angry?” Kuroo asked, catching up in two strides, and tackled Morisuke to his bed just after he turned on the heater. 

“What the fuck, Kuroo!” 

“Ow. Damn, Yaku, why is your bed so hard? It’s like a wooden board.” 

“Shut up!” After kicking and elbowing Kuroo and accidentally hitting the wall, Morisuke freed himself with a hiss and whacked Kuroo with his pillow. “ _Your_ bed is too soft, asshole. It gave me back pain.” 

“What? Are you sure it was my bed and not your age?” 

Morisuke snatched his pillow and whacked Kuroo again. While Kuroo laughed at his own dumb joke, Morisuke clambered over Kuroo, intentionally jabbing his elbow into Kuroo’s abdomen, and slapped the large hands grabbing for him as he hopped onto the floor. He hung his jacket in the closet and chucked another clothes hanger at Kuroo, who seemed blissfully unaware of all the rude names directed at him in Morisuke’s mind at the moment. 

“I should kick you out now that you’ve seen my place,” Morisuke threatened as he sat down on the edge of his bed, glowering at Kuroo putting away his jacket. 

Kuroo gasped and held a hand over his heart. “You wouldn’t.” Then he frowned at his phone. “What the heck is this?” 

“What?” 

“Spam message,” Kuroo muttered, tapping on the screen and looking like he’d just taken a swig of clear vinegar that he’d mistaken for water. “Some crazy ad about how to get silky hair.” 

Morisuke snorted and, unable to contain himself, dissolved into laughter. 

“Yaku, it’s not funny!” 

“I wanna see...” 

“I already deleted it.” 

“I can’t pfft—believe... That’s so... For real? Targeted spam? What did you do?” 

“I don’t know!” 

“Maybe you should’ve taken it seriously.” Morisuke snickered and tilted his chin up when a somewhat disgruntled Kuroo came to stand in front of him. 

“You’re only getting away with this because I like you,” Kuroo said with his arms crossed. 

“We’re even,” Morisuke replied in a voice that didn’t sound particularly like his (a bit too thick maybe). He reached for Kuroo, thinking that all this time, it wasn’t really him putting up with Kuroo but Kuroo putting up with him. _Why_ , he wondered as he pulled Kuroo into his arms and felt the other’s hands settle on his back. Why would he do this? Why was he like this? 

Why did he suddenly think this was temporary? 

“Yaku, you still up for the Christmas party on Saturday?” 

Morisuke blinked at Kuroo before he recalled their text message exchange. “Your department party?” 

“Yeah.” 

Placed in the context of Kuroo’s doubts about Rum, the message _come meet my new friends_ seemed less like an invitation and more like a request for help. “You want my opinion of the Rum candidates,” Morisuke stated, trying to gauge Kuroo’s reaction and interpret his distant expression. 

“Not just Rum. We’re looking for Miyano Shiho too, aren’t we?” 

Morisuke slouched back and dropped his hands onto his lap. “Look. I’ll go, but I can’t hold your hand for this. It’s your investigation. I know you can handle it. You know how to think.” 

Kuroo opened his mouth, shut it, and averted his gaze, visibly torn about something. After a long pause, he said, “I don’t know if I can be as objective as I thought I could be.” 

“What is that supposed to mean?” Morisuke asked, furrowing his brows as he thought of his mother and Bokuto. 

“Academic circles are pretty small. Sooner or later, you’ll run into someone you know. It’s hard to imagine them as people who’re capable of hurting others when you know them personally. I keep looking for ways to prove their innocence.” 

_Oh_ , thought Morisuke. “Sit down,” he said as he scooted backwards and rearranged his pillow. “I’m going to lie down so I don’t have to strain my neck when I look at you, stupid tall person.” 

Kuroo let out a soft chuckle and stretched out on the bed, tucking one arm under the pillow and the other around Morisuke. “What if we fall asleep like this?” 

“Then we fall asleep like this?” Morisuke answered, puzzled about the concern. He turned to face Kuroo. “Well? Who’s the person you know?” It couldn’t be one of the faculty members because he would’ve said something by now, Morisuke deduced, so it must’ve been someone he saw today, possibly at group meeting. Someone who might be Miyano Shiho? 

“A classmate from undergrad,” said Kuroo. “Koshimizu Natsuki. We didn’t keep in contact after graduation, so I was surprised to see her at group meeting today. She’s a postdoc for Wakasa Rumi and works on telomerase in cancer cells. She was the one who brought up Jewel Dome.” He paused. “She went there over the weekend with her sister, but she’s not the only one with an older sister. There’s a research scientist named Haibara Ai in Wakasa Rumi’s group. She has a sister too. Obviously neither sister is called Hirota Masami or Miyano Akemi.” 

“No one has the last name Hirota?” 

“Nope. Well, there are a few people with that last name, but they’re in other departments. The only one who runs a lab is a sixty-year-old, male professor. It’s possible that Miyano Shiho is unaffiliated with Teitan U, but she has to interact with people _somewhere_ if she has the capability to develop APTX. Research isn’t an isolated activity, and there’s no way they’re all underground scientists. Never mind that abandoned shed that your FBI friend told you about.” 

“She’s not my FBI friend or any kind of friend,” Morisuke protested, appalled. An idea occurred to him. “Actually, what’re you doing on Friday? It’s a holiday.” 

“Oh yeah. It’s the Emperor’s Birthday. I don’t know. What do you want to do?” 

“I was thinking we could break into ‘that abandoned shed,’ as you put it so elegantly.” 

“‘Break into.’ Yakkun, who’s the elegant one here? I should report you to the cops again—ow.” Kuroo caught the hand that flicked his cheek and brought it to his lips, grinning, before he let go of it. “Is it a good idea though?” 

“It could be. Can you find out what the people in your department are doing on Friday? Specifically Wakasa Rumi and the two you just mentioned, but the more we know, the better.” 

“I’ll try. Should I hint at the shed when I talk to them? It might give us a clue if one of them is really Miyano Shiho.” Kuroo grimaced as if his own suggestion pained him. 

Morisuke hesitated. It was a high-risk-high-reward move. He didn’t want Kuroo in more danger than necessary, but they couldn’t tread water forever. “Use your best judgment,” he decided to say, but when he saw Kuroo’s faint smile, he wondered if that was the right answer or the wrong one—and if there could ever be a right one.


	16. Coincidence

Morisuke cracked an egg into the pan and backed away, his face scrunching up as the hot oil sputtered. It’d been a while since he’d fried an egg for breakfast, and he’d forgotten how much the cooking oil could spatter. _Damn thing._ Prodding at the sizzling egg with a spatula, he went over his plans for the day, from what he had to tell Kuroo to what he needed to ask Iwaizumi to—

Kuroo sidled up to the stove after emerging from the bathroom and draped his arm around Morisuke’s shoulder. Distracted by the warmth and the weight and the sheer presence of the other, Morisuke tried to flip the egg twice, almost pushing it out of the pan before he succeeded. His knuckles turned white, as if gripping the handles of the pan and the spatula with all his strength was the only way to prevent himself from seeking more of Kuroo’s touch and then ending up with a burnt egg. Anyway, he wouldn’t be able to smell sugar and spice, Morisuke consoled himself, in part because Kuroo used his plain soap to shower last night and in part because the smell of coffee and fried egg permeated the entire room. 

“Yakkun is making breakfast for me,” Kuroo said in a saccharine and self-congratulatory voice that made Morisuke wish he had the strength to snap the plastic spatula in two. 

“Who’s making breakfast for you?” Morisuke huffed, brandishing the spatula at Kuroo, who stepped backwards and raised his hands in mock surrender. The lever on the toaster sprung up. Morisuke removed the two pieces of toast and inserted another two slices of bread into the toaster as he said, “I’m making breakfast for myself. You get the leftovers.” 

“Oh really...” 

Morisuke tensed for a moment when Kuroo’s hands found their way around his chest. He felt Kuroo’s chin rest on his head at the same time as he scooped the fried egg onto a small plate, and he wondered if Kuroo could feel his increased heart rate as distinctly as he could feel the other’s body heat over his ribs and on his back through multiple layers of clothes. Suddenly Kuroo snickered, his whole body shaking, and Morisuke bristled. 

“What?” he demanded as he contemplated throwing open the cupboard door overhead just to hit Kuroo in the face. 

“Your fried egg is so misshapen and overcooked—it’s kinda cute.” 

Morisuke slammed the cooking oil container that he was about open down on the stove while the plastic crackled under his fingers. “Why don’t you make one then, asshole?” he challenged and twisted out of Kuroo’s arms, scowling. 

Kuroo caught the spatula shoved at him, glanced at it, and reached for Morisuke’s hand with a conciliatory smile. “No, wait. I want to eat the one you made.” 

“Then eat that one!” Morisuke yanked his hand away and pointed at the fried egg in the shape of a triangle instead of a circle. He loved good food, but if he were brutally honest, food was food was poop once it passed through the digestive tract regardless of how it started out. “It’s not like I eat fried eggs for breakfast,” he added sourly. He usually boiled eggs because it was easier to multitask that way and to clean up afterwards. 

“You know, I was thinking earlier that you didn’t look like you did this often,” said Kuroo. “Just admit you’re doing this for me, Yakkun. It’ll make me very happy.” 

“I’m not—” Morisuke’s cheeks burned like the smoking pan on the stove as he struggled to formulate a response. “I... I just need to get rid of the eggs before they go bad, otherwise it would be a waste—” 

Kuroo tossed the spatula onto the counter and sealed Morisuke’s lips with a kiss so sudden that a sound escaped from the back of Morisuke’s throat. It was not the most passionate kiss that they’d shared, or the most desperate, as they had at night in hot, tangled sheets. But it was one that overwhelmed Morisuke in the two (ten? twenty?) seconds they kissed because all Kuroo seemed to be doing here was give, give, and give. There was no pause for Morisuke to process what was overflowing, no chance to reciprocate what was possibly unique to Kuroo Tetsurou even as he returned the kiss. 

When Kuroo pulled away, Morisuke gulped in the cool air, blinking, briefly crossing his eyes. He wanted to ask _what the hell was that_ , but instead, he just stared at Kuroo and his lips and his flushed cheeks and his slight grimace. 

“Did you drink coffee already?” Kuroo asked, his hands still on Morisuke’s face. 

“Wha—yeah?” 

“Oh.” 

Kuroo looked like he’d tasted petroleum rather than black coffee, and Morisuke sighed, rolling his eyes. As if his toothpaste was any better. Ducking under Kuroo’s arms, he turned off the stove and placed the pan in the sink before the smoke could trigger the fire alarm. 

“Are you really not making another one?” Kuroo asked when Morisuke returned the second egg to its crate in the fridge. “Do you want to share this one?” 

“Whatever. It’s yours.” Morisuke handed the plates with the fried egg and the toast to Kuroo and retrieved the other two pieces of toast that had popped up from the toaster. 

“Where are we eating? There’s only one chair in your room.” 

“You can sit on the floor, smartass,” Morisuke said as he refilled his coffee mug. There was a folding chair tucked under his bed, but he wasn’t going to let Kuroo know about it until he got his revenge for the vulgar word “cute.” 

“I’ll sit on your lap then.” 

Morisuke nearly spilled his coffee. He set the coffee pot on the counter with a clack and glared at Kuroo. “What the hell? Look at how big you are and tell me again what you want to do?” 

Kuroo tilted his head as he considered his answer for half a second, and his mischievous grin widened. “You can sit on my lap then.” 

Morisuke felt his blood pressure rise along with the temperature in the room. He hated that a part of himself found that solution acceptable—or worse, irresistible. He should’ve seen this coming. He really should’ve. Goddamn opportunist. “I can’t fucking believe this,” he muttered, storming into his room to bring out the folding chair covered in a thin layer of dust. 

“What? There’s a second chair? Aw, you’re no fun, Yakkun.” 

“There’s milk and orange juice and water in the fridge,” Morisuke told Kuroo as he carried his breakfast to his desk. “Pick your own poison.” 

Seated on the folding chair, he was about to bite into his buttered toast when Kuroo placed a glass of orange juice next to the fried egg, pushed the desk chair aside, and towered over him. 

“What?” Morisuke said, eyeing Kuroo warily. 

Kuroo smirked and hooked his arms around Morisuke’s torso, lifting him from the chair. 

“What the fuck are you doing?!” One hand clutching his toast, Morisuke tried to pry himself from Kuroo’s grasp with his other hand but somehow fell into Kuroo’s lap during the scuffle. 

“I win,” Kuroo declared, giving Morisuke a squeeze and keeping his arms locked in place. 

Morisuke shifted so that he was sitting sideways and elbowed Kuroo in the chest. “Seriously? Couldn’t you have just asked?” 

“But I sort of did. You didn’t say yes, and you didn’t say no. I bet you wouldn’t have given me a straight answer even if I asked again. You’re kind of like that most of the time, you know.” 

Morisuke stiffened. Nishinoya had said something similar once. 

_Why can’t you be blunt with yourself the way you are with everything else, Morisuke-kun?_

Averting his gaze, Morisuke chewed his toast and mumbled, “Just eat your breakfast. I have a lot to do today, so I can’t leave too late.” 

There was a pause before Kuroo gave Morisuke another squeeze and reached for his fried egg. Morisuke could see Kuroo’s eyes linger on him in his peripheral vision—out of what, he didn’t (want to) know—so he turned his head to check the time on the wall clock. 7:07. 

He’d woken up at daybreak, with Kuroo’s long limbs heavy around him and steady breathing fanning his skin. He’d watched the room lighten enough to make out Kuroo’s features softened by sleep, unguarded and idiotic and not in the least crafty, all the while he was thinking about the smallness of the academic world and the world itself. 

Kuroo had seemed unnerved by the unexpected encounter with his college classmate, and Morisuke, in the wakeful period at dawn, couldn’t help but extrapolate that to an ill-fated encounter between Kuroo and Daishou. Before, he’d been concerned about potential leaks, especially given Kai’s doubt about Lev, but now, he feared the possibility that Kuroo could inadvertently blow Daishou’s cover if they ran into each other. Their near miss at Blue Parrot, which hadn’t crossed his mind at the time because of the call from Terushima and Misaki, plus Daishou’s statements about the hunt for spies within the organization and the death of the FBI agent, none of these assuaged his fears. What was worse: he dreaded what Daishou was capable of doing in order to protect himself. 

“Kuroo,” Morisuke said and met the other’s eyes, which lit up with interest. “Something I need to tell you.” 

Kuroo nodded in acknowledgement, his mouth full but his expression sober. 

“It’s about Daishou,” Morisuke continued. Kuroo stopped chewing for an instant and narrowed his eyes at Morisuke. “He’s the other PSB agent who reports to me on this case. His alias is Daitou Yuu. Remember that. He’s in a dangerous position in the organization right now, so don’t blow his cover. But hopefully you won’t ever run into each other.” 

Kuroo cringed as though the mouthful of egg he’d just swallowed was rotten instead of fried. 

“What’s your problem?” Morisuke asked, irked. 

“I wasn’t expecting this,” Kuroo said, still looking a little queasy. “I always thought he worked as a security guard for Shueisha. Now I find out that scumbag actually works for the PSB _and_ I’m not allowed to jeopardize his mission _and_ I have to share Yakkun with him. It’s too much.” 

Morisuke smacked Kuroo’s forehead with the back of his hand. “Quit being melodramatic. Do you want me to list all the agents I’ve worked with? Am working with?” 

Kuroo looked askance at Morisuke. “How did the PSB even hire a snake like Daishou? Are you going to tell me next that Mika is an informant? And Cafe Poirot is actually a PSB hideout?” 

“No,” said Morisuke. “What beef do you have with Daishou anyway? Did you two fight over Mika or something, and you lost?” 

“Would you be jealous if I said I did?” 

“Why would I be jealous?” Morisuke retorted and took a large sip of his coffee. 

Kuroo sighed. “No, I don’t have a beef with him,” he admitted as he ate his toast. “Just don’t really like the guy. He rubs me the wrong way.” 

“That inspires confidence in your ability to sniff out Rum,” Morisuke remarked dryly. 

A sheepish smile fleeted across Kuroo’s face. “Yeah, well... In the end, it’s about the evidence, I know,” he said, his gaze focused on a distant place and time while his expression grew pensive. “Doesn’t matter whether you like the idea or not because it won’t change the truth a single bit. In police investigations. In science.” He hesitated. “I suppose the hard part is facing it.”

  


* * *

  


It was raining when Morisuke left for the TMPD headquarters. As he crossed the intersection, his phone buzzed twice.

>      [Loser Tetsurou]  
>       sensei invited the group to dinner tonight  
>       dunno when ill be back  
>       11:23 AM  
> 

Morisuke frowned. Which sensei? And why? He deleted his initial questions and sent: _Ok, see you tomorrow then._ After their conversation over breakfast, he’d felt some of the weight lifted from his chest and concluded that Kuroo would be fine and would do fine. Might as well use this opportunity away from the giant distraction to catch up on the work that’d been piling up.

But first, he thought as he entered the TMPD building and dropped his wet umbrella off at the umbrella stand, he had to find Iwaizumi. 

“He’s still talking to Oikawa,” an officer named Hanamaki told him after he identified himself with his PSB badge and inquired for Iwaizumi. “He knows you’re coming, but it might take a while, so just have a seat, yeah?” 

Morisuke raised an eyebrow at the implied tardiness and the fact that Oikawa Tooru was here, but he said nothing and sat down on one of the flimsy plastic chairs lined up against the wall. No one in Division 2 looked like they’d gotten more than three hours of sleep in the past three days, judging from the dark circles under their eyes and their disheveled appearances and the thick smell of coffee and the pile of takeout boxes in the trash. The ringing of telephones and the whir of fax machines and printers mixed with the hum of conversations that ranged from complaints about the press to discussions about online gambling sites under investigation and the latest Night Baron virus attack on government servers. 

All the action was in Division 2, Kai had said, and Morisuke felt a twinge of sympathy. If only he could haul Numai’s group out here. Those scoundrels were so bored that Morisuke overheard Numai entertaining the idea of “creating” some crisis for them to resolve. Hiroo, instead of telling Numai off like he was supposed to, decided to follow it up with remarks on a mystery series he’d been reading, where the detective stumbled across a corpse wherever he went. “I’d start suspecting the detective,” Hiroo had said as he flew a paper airplane into the hallway. 

“He’s over there,” said Hanamaki just as Morisuke was debating if he should give his two extra opera tickets to Numai and Hiroo as opposed to Kai and whoever replaced Shibayama. 

The inspector who’d walked out of a meeting room, looking haggard, headed toward Morisuke and extended his hand. “Sorry to keep you waiting,” he said, sounding tired but less irritated than his furrowed brow suggested. “I’m Iwaizumi.” 

Giving his name in response, Morisuke rose to his feet and shook Iwaizumi’s hand. A firm grip. 

“Do you want coffee?” asked Iwaizumi. “I’m getting myself another cup.” 

“Yeah, sure,” Morisuke replied and followed Iwaizumi into the cluttered kitchenette. 

“I know you’re interested in Altana,” Iwaizumi said as he poured a cup of coffee for Morisuke and then for himself. “But what exactly does the PSB want?” 

“What information do you have?” 

“Well, we can’t hand everything over to you without knowing what you’re going to do with it.” 

“The financial statements then. The sources of funding.” 

“Okay, but why?” 

Growing impatient, Morisuke replied by asking, “Why are _you_ investigating Altana anyway?” 

“Because it has to do with me,” said a proud, sugary voice that Morisuke had only heard on television before. It was less charismatic in person, strained no doubt because of the ongoing investigation. 

“Oikawa,” Iwaizumi growled as he and Morisuke whipped around to face the impeccably dressed politician standing in the doorway. “What are you doing, parading yourself out here?” 

“Iwa-chan, you make it sound like I’m strutting about naked,” Oikawa sniffed, affronted. 

“You might as well be! Look at all the allegations against you! Go back to the meeting room.” 

“I ran out of tea,” Oikawa said, holding up a mug with a tea bag in it. “Why didn’t you tell me you were meeting with someone from the PSB? I deserve to hear this since it’s about me.” 

“We’re not talking about you,” said Iwaizumi. He snatched the mug from Oikawa and poured hot water into it. “We’re talking about Altana. Now go back to the meeting room.” 

Oikawa took the refilled mug with an oddly petulant expression and glanced at Morisuke, who decided to ignore what seemed like a dramatic display of Oikawa’s private persona and asked, “What does Altana have to do with you?” 

Oikawa beamed. “Oh, would you like to chat?” 

Iwaizumi interrupted, “I’m sorry, but the PSB has no jurisdiction over Oikawa’s case.” 

“Let’s ignore Grumpy Joe over there and have a nice chat over coffee and tea,” Oikawa said as he ushered Morisuke out the kitchenette. 

“Oikawa!” Iwaizumi shouted, stomping after them. “Stop making your case more complicated than it already is by dragging a different agency into this! Division One is already involved, and you know they won’t give you the benefit of doubt—” Oikawa shut the door in Iwaizumi’s face before the latter could enter the meeting room, but he flung it open again. “For god’s sake, Oikawa, corruption is one thing, murder is another. Who knows what the PSB will add to that.” 

“But you know I’m innocent, Iwa-chan, and I know you’ll prove it,” Oikawa said and sat down across from Morisuke, who had been watching the entire exchange with increasing weariness but decreasing wariness as he pieced together the reason for Iwaizumi’s reluctance and subtle hostility (some PSB agents were not above tampering with the evidence or obtaining evidence through illegal channels if there was an urgent need, and Iwaizumi seemed to have assumed that Morisuke was one of them). “Anyway,” Oikawa continued, smiling at Morisuke. “I’m sure you won’t be accusing me of anything now, will you, PSB-chan?” 

_PSB-chan?_ “I have a name. It’s Yaku,” Morisuke replied in annoyance. He met Iwaizumi’s eyes after the inspector closed the door and took a seat at the table, between him and Oikawa. “Honestly, I don’t care what charges are brought against Oikawa. It’s not my business. I need information on Altana and also Itakura’s murder because it has to do with _my_ case, which is classified but completely unrelated unless Oikawa here has other secrets.” 

“Itakura’s murder?” Iwaizumi echoed in distrust before Oikawa could speak. “You didn’t say anything about that on the phone.” 

“That was before it happened,” Morisuke pointed out. 

“Don’t I get to say something?” asked Oikawa. 

“What?” said Iwaizumi. 

“Are you investigating the brewing company, Yakkun?” 

“Don’t call me that!” Morisuke shouted. Only Kuroo was allowed to—no, not even Kuroo was allowed to call him that, but Kuroo was Kuroo, obstinate like the incessant dripping of water that bored through rocks. Protesting every time would simply be a waste of his breath. 

“Again with the brewing company?” Iwaizumi exclaimed. “You’re being delusional, Oikawa.” 

“What brewing company?” Morisuke asked, struck by the non sequitur and a sense of unease. 

“The brewing company is out to get me,” Oikawa explained without explaining, “but Iwa-chan doesn’t believe me.” 

“How am I supposed to believe you if you won’t tell me the name of the company?” 

“But it doesn’t have a name!” 

“Whatever, Oikawa.” Scowling, Iwaizumi pulled the thick binder on the table toward himself and turned to Morisuke while Oikawa sipped at his tea, slighted by the dismissal. “So about Altana. What do you want to know again? Where the money comes from and where it goes?” 

Swallowing his question about “the brewing company” because it was probably more difficult to catch Iwaizumi in the mood to share information freely, Morisuke said, “The sources, yeah.” 

“Could you be a bit more specific? Like operations or investments or maybe specific programs? It’ll take us a week to go over all of their statements in detail.” 

Trying to decipher the financial statements in the binder upside-down, Morisuke frowned as he thought of his mother, Miya, and the Landau Foundation. “They offer stroke treatments. Is there a statement for that program?” 

Both Iwaizumi and Oikawa blinked at him in surprise, either because they didn’t know what he was talking about or because they knew exactly what he was talking about. 

“Yeah, that’s one of the few programs with its own statement,” Iwaizumi said reluctantly and flipped several pages in the binder. 

“What are the other programs?” Morisuke asked. 

“A couple of their cancer treatment programs,” Iwaizumi muttered. He found the page with a table labeled _Altana Ambrosia_ and passed it to Morisuke. 

Approximately a third of the money came from the Landau Foundation, Morisuke noted after he studied the dizzying rows and columns of numbers. Another third came from _Other_ while the last third came from the patients receiving the treatment. The fact that a pharmaceutical company was profiting from the patients wasn’t newsworthy, but the fact that a substantial amount of money came from _seven_ patients—assuming that neither Miya nor Miyano Elena lied about this—was mind-boggling. The cost for his mother’s treatment was hardly a seventh of the total. How would the waiver of cash payment have modified the numbers in this row? 

“Who _are_ these people?” Morisuke asked no one in particular, too stunned to remain quiet. 

“The patients?” said Oikawa. “Some very interesting people.” 

Morisuke looked up abruptly. “You know who they are?” he asked at the same time Iwaizumi warned, “Oikawa.” 

“Iwa-chan has a list,” said Oikawa. “Just show it to him, Iwa-chan. Maybe he can help.” 

Iwaizumi made an exasperated, guttural sound at Oikawa and said to Morisuke, “Yes, I have a list. But there might be a very important witness on this list, so I hope you understand.” 

“I won’t interfere with your investigation,” Morisuke said flatly. In truth, his interest in the list had little to do with his case. It was pure curiosity piqued by Oikawa’s and Iwaizumi’s reactions and perhaps his own involvement with Altana. He hadn’t planned on breaching the medical privacy, but if the TMPD already possessed the list of names, he might as well take advantage of it. 

Sighing, Iwaizumi removed a handwritten list from the back of the binder and handed it to Morisuke.

>       _Ambrosia Patients_  
>        _Recovered_  
>            Hattori Zenzou  
>            Miya Osamu  
>            Takasugi Shinsuke  
>        _Comatose_  
>            Okita Mitsuba  
>            Sasaki Isaburo  
>            Tokugawa Shigeshige  
>        _Deceased_  
>            Kudo Yusaku  
> 

Morisuke wasn’t sure what he’d expected, but it wasn’t seeing the last names _Miya_ and _Kudo_ on the same list.


	17. Cards

Iwaizumi was watching him with the vigilance of a Security Police officer protecting the Prime Minister, but it was Oikawa’s focused and intense gaze that threatened to peer into his soul. 

_A very important witness._

Who was it, and what did they witness? 

Committing the first three names to memory, Morisuke returned the list to Iwaizumi, whose shoulders relaxed but whose brows remained furrowed and conveyed a mix of resignation and vexation. It would be imprudent to ask Iwaizumi point-blank who the witness was, especially since he’d all but pledged not to interfere with the inspector’s investigation. He hated beating around the bush, but he would have to approach this with tact if he wanted to succeed. 

“You recognized a name on that list, didn’t you, Yakkun?” Oikawa said with a calculating smile. 

“You did?” Iwaizumi asked in alarm, cutting off Morisuke’s objection to the nickname. So much for tact. “Which one?” 

Heart and mind racing as though he’d been caught red-handed, Morisuke answered truthfully, “Kudo Yusaku.” The last name Miya signified nothing; plenty of people shared that last name, just like plenty of people shared the last names Hattori and Takasugi. Miya Moscato’s real last name might not even be Miya. Given the organization’s tendency to create false identities like Hirota Masami, it would actually be smarter for Morisuke to bet that “Miya” was a fake name. 

“Oh,” said Iwaizumi. He nodded understandingly, whereas Oikawa looked disappointed—likely because Morisuke didn’t name the important witness but the deceased novelist instead. 

“Speaking of Kudo,” Morisuke continued, jumping at the chance to bring up Kudo Shinichi’s latest case. “Why was Itakura killed?” It bothered him that there were two causes of death for Kudo Yusaku—car crash versus stroke treatment—but he didn’t trust his memory of the news headline about the accident months ago, and there was a more pressing issue at present. 

“Because they want to ruin my reputation and my career,” Oikawa said in a resentful tone. 

“They?” Morisuke asked. “Who’re they?” 

Before Oikawa could reply, Iwaizumi asked, “Why are _you_ interested in Itakura’s murder?” 

“Iwa-chan, I was speaking!” 

“Well, maybe you shouldn’t!” 

“Itakura was my mother’s colleague,” Morisuke said and received two astonished looks. “They were collaborating on a project. Now Itakura is dead and my mother is in a hospital. I need to know if these two incidents are related.” 

“What happened to your mother?” asked Iwaizumi. 

Morisuke clenched his jaw, mentally drafting his response. He wasn’t going to get anywhere if he kept butting heads with Iwaizumi. Besides, this wasn’t classified information even though it was highly personal. _I’d better not regret this._ “She suffered a stroke,” he said, silently adding _allegedly_. “Itakura died from a heart attack, didn’t he? It could’ve been a natural death for all practical purposes. So what does it have to do with Oikawa’s reputation?” 

There was also the apoptosis heart attack, Morisuke recalled with a chill. If APTX 4869 was the undetectable poison that killed the FBI agent but failed to kill Bokuto because of unknown side effects, how could he have assumed that it didn’t have the ability to cause a stroke? What if Kuroo’s speculation about a medically induced coma was wrong? What if—

“I have a lot of influence in the Diet, as you’re aware,” Oikawa was saying. “It just so happens that the bills I want to see passed are not the ones they want to see passed. But I’m intrigued, Yakkun. What’s so special about your mother’s project that it’d make her a target like me?” 

Morisuke frowned. Oikawa’s wide-eyed curiosity seemed genuine, which was a stark contrast to his ever-present artificial smile. Thoroughly sick of the mind games, Morisuke asked, “What do you know about ASACA?” 

“Asaka? Do you mean Kubo Asaka-chan or Seto Asaka-chan?” 

“Not a person,” Morisuke snapped. “The computer.” 

Both Oikawa and Iwaizumi gave him blank looks, the lit match to his gasoline. He squeezed the handle of his coffee mug to relieve the sudden build-up of stress, holding the mug down to stop it from rattling against the surface of the table, and told himself to breathe. _Shit._ Did they really not know? “It’s an artificial intelligence program,” he said, lowering his voice so that it wouldn’t tremble. “If you don’t know what it is, then forget about it.” He took a large gulp of his coffee to wash bitterness away with bitterness and tried to relax his facial muscles. 

“Itakura did work on AI, didn’t he?” Oikawa murmured. 

“I don’t see the connection,” said Iwaizumi. “Is that program related to the game that Itakura developed for Harusame?” 

“That’s what I’m trying to figure out,” Morisuke replied testily. “What is that game?” 

“A virtual reality casino,” Oikawa answered in Iwaizumi’s stead. “Don’t glare at me, Iwa-chan. If we confirm Itakura was killed for a different reason, it’ll only help us. So let’s help Yakkun with his case.” He smiled at Morisuke. “You see how Itakura’s death affects my career now?” 

“The proposal to build casinos in Odaiba,” Morisuke stated, retrieving from his mental storage the relevant segments of the news articles he’d skimmed. 

Oikawa had opposed the proposal, but it was fine until rumors claimed that he’d accepted bribes from companies whose financial interests conflicted with the proposal. Harusame Inc. was the most prominent, the developer of a line of video and mobile games that resembled gambling but wasn’t strictly gambling according to the current laws. If the laws changed to accommodate casinos, loopholes would be closed and a portion of the company’s profits would have to be funneled to government programs and charities to fight crime and addiction. A _virtual_ casino would undoubtedly complicate matters further. 

But it also had nothing to do with ASACA. 

Was Itakura’s death unrelated? An unfortunate coincidence? But how would that explain the timing of the virus attack on ASACA if Itakura was indeed the creator of that program? 

A song for ASACA. A tar.gz file. A memory stick. A trade. Saturday (Bokuto at Tropical Land), Sunday (program installed on ASACA), Monday (ASACA shut down), Tuesday (Itakura found dead). 

“Is that game really a virtual casino?” Morisuke asked, seized by the disquieting possibility that the “game” was a front for a computer virus that Itakura created on behalf of the organization. 

“That’s what Souma claimed,” Iwaizumi said carefully. “Why do you ask?” 

“But have you seen the game? Did you verify his claim?” 

Iwaizumi and Oikawa exchanged a meaningful glance, and Iwaizumi said, “Well, yes and no. The contract and the emails say it’s a casino simulation game for HTC Vive, but Souma doesn’t have a copy of the game. It’s not clear anyone does. Itakura might not even have completed it. Apparently he was hiding from Souma because he’d missed a couple deadlines. Next thing we know, he’s dead.” 

“He was hiding from Souma? Wait, hold on. If he hadn’t finished the game, why would Souma kill him? That guarantees that he wouldn’t ever finish the game.” 

Oikawa sighed, “And we’re back to me.” 

“You?” Morisuke said and, in that instant, saw the link. “Souma claimed he was framed, and you’re the suspect.” 

“But it wasn’t me. Right, Iwa-chan?” 

“Yeah, well, you’re going to need proof,” Iwaizumi grumbled and met Morisuke’s eyes. Neither of them spoke for a few seconds, one deliberating and the other waiting. Then Iwaizumi said, “It’s like this. One of the executive VPs set up a meeting with Oikawa a few months back to discuss this casino game. There’s an email record of this meeting being scheduled, but Oikawa says a different person showed up to the meeting and talked about a different issue. Which is _not_ corroborated by the executive VP. He and his emails say that they met and that Oikawa assented to the development of the game in exchange for a cut. Then the scandal happened. Then Itakura died. Division One is arguing that Oikawa has the motive for killing Itakura because if the game is released, it’ll strengthen the case against him.” 

“A load of bullshit,” Oikawa muttered. 

“At this point, it doesn’t matter if it makes sense or not!” Iwaizumi huffed. 

“Who showed up to the meeting then?” Morisuke asked. “Your important witness?” 

“Oh, why do I have the feeling that PSB-chan will crack this case faster than Iwa-chan?” 

“Shut up, Oikawa!” 

“My important witness,” Oikawa said to Morisuke, not smiling. “Alas I don’t actually know who he is. Just that he goes by the name Atsumu, works for some brewing company in the Kansai region, and has a family member who was an Altana patient.” 

_Brewing company in the Kansai region? Altana?_

“What did he look like?” Morisuke asked. 

Oikawa turned up his nose. “Not as pretty as me.” 

Iwaizumi said, “Don’t bother asking. Our sketch artist gave up trying to work with him on this.” 

“So you just met with a random stranger?” 

“I thought the VP sent him,” Oikawa said defensively. “It would’ve been unbecoming if I threw a representative out. Anyway, he had interesting things to say, so we chatted.” 

“About what?” 

“The health bill.” 

When Morisuke knitted his brows in confusion, Iwaizumi explained, “The one they’re trying to pass right now. It’ll make it easier for new drugs and treatments to enter the market.” 

“Oh,” said Morisuke. He vaguely remembered something about a controversial health bill but not when or where he’d heard about it. “Does this have to do with Altana?” 

“It does,” said Oikawa. “In fact, everything is about this bill. The casino business is just a ruse to ruin my reputation and get the bill passed because I would’ve convinced the Diet to kill it.” 

“What? Why? I mean, why do you want to kill it?” 

Oikawa looked at him like he was stupid, but gracefully replied, “Because the bill is drafted in a way that’ll allow outrageous treatments to enter the market. For example, _anyone_ will be able to get a transfusion of young blood to rejuvenate themselves if this bill passes.” 

“ _What_?” 

“Just an example.” Oikawa sounded bored. “But do you get it now?” 

Morisuke narrowed his eyes. “Altana wants this.” 

“Altana wants it. The brewing company wants it. They all want it.” 

“So this Atsumu person met with you to do what exactly? Convince you to pass it?” 

“Something like that,” said Oikawa. “He even threatened me with a political scandal if I didn’t go along with it. But in hindsight, it was probably a warning and not a threat. On his way out, he said something I hadn’t appreciated at the time. He said, ‘We may look like we’re playing poker, but we’re actually playing blackjack.’ He also said he didn’t choose this game, so if I need his help, I’ll have to help him too.” 

“What is that supposed to mean?” 

Oikawa blinked at Morisuke. “I take back what I said earlier. You’re as slow as Iwa-chan.” He ignored their indignation and continued, “Poker is a card game you play against other players. Blackjack is between the player and the dealer, but you can tip the odds in your favor if you know how to count cards, especially if you do it as a team. He predicted that I’d need his help. Who else is going to prove that I met with him and not the VP? Never mind that I have to find him first. Then I’ll have to help him with something, and who knows what it’ll be. One thing is certain. He’s a player, I’m a player, and we’re both playing against the same dealer.”

  


* * *

  


Unfortunately, Iwaizumi said as he gathered the binder and glanced at the wall clock that read 12:25, they had to leave now to talk to the people in Division One. If there was anything else Morisuke needed, he would have to come back at a later date. 

“One last question,” Morisuke said, getting to his feet while his words stopped the other two at the door. “The brewing company. Is it literally a brewing company or figuratively?” 

Oikawa flashed a bright smile and held up two fingers as if he was posing for a photograph. “This, of course,” he said. “Now let me ask you a question in return.” 

“Oikawa,” Iwaizumi complained. “Be serious.” 

“I’m very serious, Iwa-chan.” 

Tired and overwhelmed, Morisuke said, “Just ask your question.” 

“What was Itakura working on if it wasn’t the virtual casino?” 

Iwaizumi opened his mouth to say something but changed his mind at the last moment and fixed his gaze on Morisuke. _I guess that’s a fair question_ , Morisuke thought. So despite his hesitance, he answered, “Some sort of computer virus. It—it’s just my speculation though.” 

Oikawa looked expectantly at Iwaizumi, who nodded and said, “We’ll have to look into that.” Then he glared at Oikawa. “Aren’t you going to answer his question?” 

“But I already did, Iwa-chan.” 

“No, you didn’t.” 

“He did,” Morisuke said, rolling his eyes inwardly. If he understood Oikawa correctly, the V sign meant the number 2 and thus the second option: figuratively. Which reinforced his suspicion that the “brewing” company referred to the organization with alcoholic code names. Unless there were other code name members from the Kansai region and affiliated with Altana, this Atsumu person and that Miya asshole were most likely one and the same. _Who is he?_

Morisuke waved in response when Iwaizumi and Oikawa turned to leave, and he shuffled to the elevators. He was going to have to sit down by himself at some point to process the deluge of information. As he waited, he checked his phone that he’d put on silent before the meeting.

>       [Loser Tetsurou]  
>        when r we mtg tmrw  
>        12:05 PM  
>        im eating lunch btw  
>        r u eating lunch  
>        12:12 PM

Curling his lip at his phone because of the funny tingling sensation over his stomach that also felt very empty all of the sudden, he stepped into the elevator and replied: _9?_

How should he respond to the second, pointless, nagging question? _Not yet_? _I’m going now_? Maybe Kuroo wouldn’t notice if he “forgot” to respond to it. What was _he_ eating anyway? 

He looked up when the elevator stopped two floors down, and nearly dropped his phone at the sight of the lanky half-Russian who stood out in the group like the target of Whac-A-Mole. 

“Oh! It’s Yaku-san!” 

“Lev?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Omake #AuthorsCut
> 
> Oikawa: Oh, why do I have the feeling that PSB-chan will crack this case faster than Iwa-chan?  
> Iwaizumi: Shut up, Oikawa!  
> Yaku: (to Iwaizumi) When are you going to throw him in the slammer?   
> Iwaizumi: Soon, I hope.   
> Oikawa: I can hear you!


	18. Charade

“What are you doing here, Yaku-san?” Lev asked as the group of four—including Akaashi, who nodded to Morisuke—piled into the elevator. 

“Er,” Morisuke said, pocketing his phone. “I was, uh, here for some official business.” 

“What official business?” 

Lev’s loud question was laced with the same guileless curiosity that Morisuke had once deemed both a strength and an annoyance. The former because he dared to ask questions, which was a requisite skill for their jobs; the latter because he would ask anything and everything, which had made Morisuke bark out, on numerous occasions, _None of your business._

That was what Morisuke wanted to say right now, but that seemed rude in front of two strangers, even if one of them was sporting a mohawk and the other looked like an easygoing type. 

“Aren’t you going to introduce your new colleagues?” Morisuke asked instead, changing topics, when he caught the two officers’ eyes filled with open interest. 

“Oh, yes! This is Yamamoto Taketora-san. He took over from Kuroo-san. This is Akaashi Keiji-san. He’s one of the medical examiners. This is Konoha Akinori-san. He’s an officer from Division Three. And this is Yaku Morisuke-san,” Lev told the three TMPD members as everyone stepped out of the elevator on the first floor. “He works for the PSB!” 

Morisuke bristled at the introduction even though he’d expected it while Yamamoto and Konoha both uttered an “ooh” but with differing degrees of awe. 

“We’re getting lunch,” Lev continued with boundless enthusiasm. “Have you eaten yet, Yaku-san? Do you want to join us?” 

Picking up his umbrella near the entrance, Morisuke glanced at Lev and the other three, his mental alert levels raised. The pause from his attempt to reconcile Lev’s apparent naivety with Kai’s suspicion was interpreted as a polite reluctance to intrude on the group (though that was indeed a factor too). 

“You’re welcome to join us, Yaku-san,” said Akaashi. 

“Yeah, the more the merrier!” said Yamamoto. 

“By the way,” Konoha said, walking in front and looking over his shoulder, after Morisuke had agreed to join them and they were outside where the earlier pouring rain had become a drizzle. “Were you the one that Bokuto mistook for a burglar?” 

“You were mistaken for a burglar?” Lev’s astounded voice sounded from somewhere above Morisuke’s umbrella. 

Morisuke tried not to scowl, but it was as impossible as it was for him to stop his face from heating up with embarrassment at the memory. _Why won’t it just die?_ “What is this, a joke for Division Three now?” he huffed before he realized he should’ve denied it or at least asked Konoha where he’d heard it. 

“Not at all,” Konoha said quickly. “It’s just Bokuto. Speaking of... He still hasn’t turned up yet, Akaashi?” 

“I’m afraid not,” Akaashi replied, nothing in his stoic demeanor betraying the fact that he knew exactly where Bokuto was. “This has become incredibly worrisome. I filed a police report yesterday.” 

_You did?_ Morisuke bit his tongue before he could blurt the question out, remembering that he shouldn’t know anything about Bokuto’s “disappearance” or, frankly, Bokuto himself. 

“Did you really?” Konoha asked. “You know he’s probably gonna show up on Monday and tell everyone he took a week off just because.” 

“Perhaps, but he has never pulled a disappearing act before even in his worst of moods.” 

“True... I still think it has something to do with Kuroo. I swear he’s hiding him somewhere.” 

_Why would you think that?_ Morisuke wanted to ask, but in the end, he asked the more logical question, “What happened?” 

Konoha exchanged a _you-tell-him_ glance with Akaashi, whose gaze flitted to Morisuke in recognition of their charade that, he must admit, the medical examiner excelled at. 

“No one we know has seen him since Saturday evening, which was when I last saw him,” said Akaashi. “He was carrying his wallet, so it’s possible that he traveled somewhere without informing anyone, but I can’t imagine why. I’d rather not consider the possibility of foul play, but we can’t rule that out either.” 

“If Akaashi was the last person to see him,” Morisuke said to Konoha, “why would you think it has to do with Kuroo?” 

“Well, because it’s obviously not Akaashi, and Kuroo has pulled some crazy-ass pranks before. But I guess it’s mostly because nobody knows what he’s really up to these days. I mean, you’re a PSB agent, so maybe you know. Now that I think about it, maybe the PSB secretly recruited Bokuto without telling anybody.” 

“Did they, Yaku-san?” Lev asked. 

“I don’t know,” Morisuke snapped. 

“That’s quite an impressive leap of imagination, Konoha-san,” Akaashi observed as they arrived at an izakaya. 

_That’s called a conspiracy theory_ , thought Morisuke. He and Kuroo really needed to solve the mystery of APTX 4869 before Bokuto’s situation spun out of control and wasted local police resources. The longer this continued, the riskier it’d become. What if a second victim like Bokuto appeared? It couldn’t be a condition unique to Bokuto, could it? How much time would have to pass between the two cases? 

With those thoughts and Itakura’s heart attack in mind, Morisuke took the seat next to Akaashi’s at the six-person table. If Itakura had died from APTX, Akaashi would be the one to notice any peculiarities in the autopsy. The problem was the appropriate time to ask Akaashi about this. 

After they gave their lunch orders, Lev, sitting across from Morisuke, asked the whole table, “What are your plans for the long weekend?” 

“I don’t actually have tomorrow off,” Konoha grumbled from the other end of the table and earned a few sympathetic looks. 

“My sister wants to go to this manga exhibit tomorrow,” Yamamoto announced. “So I’m going with her.” 

“Wow, that’s so cool, Taketora-san! I’m going to my sister’s rehearsal tomorrow. I guess tomorrow is a sister day for us!” 

“Your sister?” Morisuke asked Lev, intrigued. He knew, from Lev’s frequent boasting in the past, that Haiba Alisa was a gorgeous opera singer who rose to fame after her success as Marguerite in _Faust_ , but that was the extent of his knowledge as he wasn’t an opera aficionado. “The rehearsal for what?” 

“The New Year’s Eve opera. She’s singing the role of the Nightingale!” 

“Mannn...” Yamamoto buried his head in his hands. “I’m still sad the tickets are sold out.” 

“Next time I’ll try to get you front row tickets, Taketora-san!” 

While Yamamoto cast Lev a grateful, almost tearful look, Morisuke reached for his glass of ice water that the waiter had just served. He hadn’t read about the cast when he looked up _The Nightingale_ on the theater website this past Saturday, too focused on comparing his mother’s and Daishou’s tickets to care, but he probably wouldn’t have grasped the significance of Haiba Alisa as the main role anyway at the time. He wasn’t sure he grasped it now. _Haiba. Landau. “That Person.” Tickets. ASACA?_

“What about you, Yaku-san?” Lev asked. 

“What? What about me?” 

“Any plans for tomorrow?” 

“Uh...” Morisuke thought about Kuroo and their plan to break into—investigate—what was supposed to be Miyano Shiho’s lab, and replied, “I’m... just going to catch up on sleep.” 

“You do look very tired, Yaku-san, so you definitely need more sleep. And you, Akaashi-san?” 

Akaashi stopped fiddling with his chopsticks and said, “A friend’s son is visiting from Miyagi, so I’ll be showing him around Tokyo.” 

Morisuke raised an eyebrow while Konoha remarked, “I didn’t know you had a friend in Miyagi.” 

“We lost contact until recently.” 

Whatever Konoha had planned to say next was interrupted by the waiter serving the appetizers, and the conversation drifted to the food, the weather, and other idle topics. Toward the end of their lunch, when Lev excused himself to go to the restroom in the middle of Yamamoto and Konoha’s debate about the latest season of a volleyball anime, Morisuke leaned closer to Akaashi and asked, “What do you know about the results of Itakura’s autopsy?” 

“Itakura? The Beika University professor?” 

“Yeah.” 

“Unfortunately, I wasn’t the one who performed the autopsy, so I won’t be able to tell you much.” 

“Then the one who did... Would they have noticed an apoptosis heart attack? You know, like the...” _Shit, what was the FBI agent’s alias again? Dai something?_

“I remember that case. Did Kuroo-san tell you about it?” 

“Yeah. Turns out that guy died from A—the undetectable poison.” 

Akaashi narrowed his eyes. “Does that mean the poison usually triggers an abnormal heart attack?” 

“Maybe. I think. That’s all I know.” 

“Hmm... I’ll talk with the pathologist who performed the autopsy, but I doubt he would’ve identified the apoptotic process. Nothing might come out of this,” Akaashi warned. “It’s also too late to request a second autopsy even if we had the authority to do so, which we don’t.” 

Spotting Lev weaving his way through the tables, Morisuke said, “That’s fine. Whatever you can find out. And thanks.”

  


* * *

  


The rain had stopped by the time Morisuke headed back to his office. Lunch with Lev and the others had thrown him off balance in a manner distinct from the meeting with Iwaizumi and Oikawa. It was an unforeseeable detour, a semblance of normality, and a kaleidoscopic juxtaposition of truths and lies. When you immersed yourself in such a role, where the most nondescript answers like _I don’t know_ concealed layers of _I do know_ , you would start suspecting the other party of the same. 

Was Lev being Lev, direct and tactless but with no ulterior motives? Or was he fishing for information? Could a person be that skilled and subtle? And if he wasn’t, what did that make Kai’s suspicion? Was it, in actuality, someone else using Lev as a scapegoat—kind of like what Daishou had done to the FBI agent? If that were the case, who could it be? 

Morisuke greeted Kai as he entered his office, pausing when the impossible entered his thoughts. He stared at Kai, who gave him a quizzical smile in return. Shaking his head, he muttered a “Nothing” and sat down at his desk, where Kai faded into the background near the edge of his vision, always there but never registered. 

It couldn’t be Kai, Morisuke reassured himself. It simply wouldn’t make any sense. Why would he point out that there were leaks if he was the source? It was one thing to find a scapegoat if he came under suspicion, and another entirely to draw attention to something that had previously escaped everyone’s notice. That would be like saying one had an alibi _before_ the murder happened. 

Suppressing a sigh and determined to do something more productive, Morisuke proceeded to type up everything he’d learned from Iwaizumi and Oikawa. 

According to Iwaizumi, a vice president of Harusame had set up a meeting with Oikawa to discuss a virtual reality casino simulation game that would be subject to excess regulation if gambling became legal in the country. The email records indicated that this meeting had taken place as planned, but emails could be faked, which Oikawa seemed to have implied when he claimed that it was “Atsumu” and not the VP who’d met with him and that they’d discussed the health bill rather than the game. 

Assuming that Oikawa was telling the truth, the meeting would’ve had dual purposes. One, to convince Oikawa to let the health bill pass. Two, to sow the seeds for a scandal that would corrode the trust in Oikawa if he didn’t agree, thus removing the obstacle to the adoption of the bill. In this scenario, the virtual casino, the scandal, even Itakura’s murder were mere smokescreens. Possibly irrelevant. 

Neither Oikawa nor Iwaizumi had recognized ASACA, so maybe Itakura’s death really had nothing to do with it. On the other hand, Itakura’s murder came across as overkill if it was meant to frame Oikawa. Sugawara had said that Itakura quit computer graphics because of his poor eyesight. Would someone like that accept a side job to develop a VR game? Given the timing of various events, Morisuke would guess that Itakura was coerced into creating a computer virus to destroy ASACA and then disposed of once he’d outlived his usefulness. Did he know about the organization? Was he the one who delivered the memory stick? Did he also leak its whereabouts to Shibayama? Was that why he was _really_ killed? If that was so, the person behind this was an incredible, formidable opponent. 

Was that person “the dealer” that Oikawa quoted? The boss of the organization? 

_We may look like we’re playing poker, but we’re actually playing blackjack._

Not player against player, but players against dealer. 

Whose side was Atsumu on? 

Grabbing a pen and a notepad, Morisuke wrote _Atsumu_ down in hiragana. Then _Miya_ in hiragana, _Miya Osamu_ in kanji, _Moscato_ in Latin script. _It’s M. Moscato_ , he thought as he added the letter _M_ in front and spelled _Miya_ out in romaji. This was a moot exercise if the person he’d met at the Ritz-Carlton had assumed a false identity for the sole purpose of muddying the waters. But if Atsumu was Miya was the relative of Miya Osamu, then what? Was “Atsumu” a random name or a real name? Miya Atsumu and Miya Osamu sounded like siblings. Did he give Morisuke the name “Miya” as opposed to “Atsumu” because of “M” and thought it was funny? 

_Mycroft? Not Moriarty?_

Back then, Morisuke had thought Miya was being an ass and mocking him with some weird guess-who game, but now he wondered if there was a hidden message. Mycroft Holmes, the smarter but lazier brother of Sherlock Holmes. Hardly the bad guy. _No way._ Morisuke gripped his pen and drew an angry poop on top of the _Miya_ written in hiragana before crossing it out. _No fucking way._

He tossed his pen to the side and searched online for the name “Miya Osamu.” The news article at the top of the search results, to his surprise, was about Kudo Yusaku’s accident at the end of March. 

It was a crash between two vehicles on the Central Circuit, a motor racing track in Hyogo Prefecture, during a private event hosted by the Inarizaki Group. Kudo Yusaku, in attendance as a trustee of the Landau Foundation, was in one of the cars and lost control at the bend while Miya Osamu, a junior executive of Inarizaki, was in the other. Both suffered head injuries and were rushed to the hospital. 

“What the fuck,” Morisuke mouthed as he reread the article and the names of the parties involved. 

“Yaku.” 

Startled, Morisuke looked at Kai buttoning his coat near the doorway. “What?” 

“Don’t stay too late, and remember to eat a proper dinner.” 

“Late?” Morisuke glanced at the time on his computer screen and blurted out “Holy crap” when it said 5:58 PM. Last he checked, it was still 4 PM. 

“Well, I’m off,” said Kai. “Have a good weekend.” 

“Yeah, you too.” 

After Kai turned to leave, Morisuke stared at the article and the time and sighed, rubbing his temples. He was onto something, but he should visit his mother at the hospital before it got too late. Maybe get dinner there too. He could continue the internet dig from home afterwards. 

As he prepared to head out, thinking that Kuroo had been unusually quiet this afternoon, he pulled out his phone—and discovered that he’d forgotten he’d left his phone on silent, and that there were four new messages from Kuroo.

>      [Loser Tetsurou]  
>       [thumbs-up]  
>       where r we mtg btw  
>       12:37 PM  
>       i hear theres gonna be crazy wind tonight  
>       dont get blown away yakkun  
>       01:09 PM

Morisuke swore at the most recent message and put his phone away but took it out again a second later to respond: _Teitan U station._

And then: _Winds are stronger at higher altitudes you moron._


	19. Copy

His mother’s room is bright when he arrives. Someone is rapping on the window. Frowning, he draws the blinds as a shadow skitters away. Only family members are allowed in here, he thinks. There is a bouquet of red spider lilies on the table. The hallway light is spilling into the darkened room, and he freezes when he sees the door ajar. Someone is here, is approaching. He gropes for his gun, unable to move his feet or cry out, and looks up to find a face—

Morisuke jolted awake, his heart pounding with fright which receded as his eyes took in the dark shapes of his closet, bookshelf, desk, and chair. Also chipping away at that sense of immediate danger was the tick-tock of his wall clock, light and crisp the way it could only be in reality. 

_Shit, that was—_

He burrowed under his blanket with a frustrated but relieved sigh, and shut his eyes tight for a second. The mental images, however, persisted. The black window glass, the white plastic blinds, the red spider lilies like splotches of blood. It was absurd, and he knew it was absurd. His mother’s ward was on the seventh floor, so no one in their right mind would climb in from the windows. Plants weren’t permitted in the ICU or the step-down unit where his mother was to be transferred, let alone the infamous “flowers of the other shore.” 

_Shit. Of all the flowers... Shit, shit._

Still seeing the red spider lilies, Morisuke reached for his phone on the nightstand and checked the time. 4:04 a.m. He groaned into his pillow. He’d slept for a grand total of three hours, and now he was much too alert to fall asleep again. Even though he wasn’t superstitious, the dream had awakened the fear he’d forced to lie dormant when he’d signed the papers about nine hours ago to complete his mother’s transfer between the two hospital units. 

His mother’s condition had stabilized, the nurse had informed him, relaying Dr. Miyano’s message. If all went well, his mother would be transferred to the general ward soon. 

He’d stared at the nurse in apprehension, uncertain how he should read this move. Was it a deliberate move? The nurse, misunderstanding his reaction, had then elaborated on the reasons—all of them valid, all of them excuses. The patient was improving, the patient would continue to receive the best care available, the cost would be lower, there were limited number of beds in the ICU... When at last the nurse had asked him if he’d had any other questions or concerns before signing the papers, he’d wanted to laugh because yes, yes he did, except he couldn’t voice any of it, could he? 

_Is my mother really recovering (and is it really a stroke) or is this some sort of ploy? A strategic move in a deadly game of chess that I’m forced to play?_

Morisuke sat up, wringing his blanket to redirect the anger aroused by the nameless, faceless person from the dream. Anyone would be able to visit his mother once she was admitted to the general ward, which, the nurse had said, should benefit the patient. Hearing from people like Sugawara or Michimiya would, no doubt, help; at the same time, the people who’d targeted his mother were still at large. Yet had he expected the ICU to be different? His mother’s doctor was one of them, so it wasn’t a move from a sheep barn to the lion’s den but a bear cave to the savanna where a host of predators dwelt. It pissed him off, not because there were people like the Miyanos, but because there was nothing he could do to protect the people he loved. 

Rather than fretting like a loser, he decided as he swung his feet to the floor, he might as well go back to the online investigation that he’d cut short earlier for the sake of some lousy sleep. 

The breakthrough that evening, after an hour of fruitless hunt using alternative keywords, had come in the form of a photograph embedded in someone’s blog post about a college reunion in 2012. It’d showed “Atsumu-kun” and “Osamu-kun” at a barbecue somewhere at Kobe University, one of them wearing a complacent smile and the other giving the camera an impassive look. Morisuke had gaped at the two identical faces and gripped his head in incredulity after repeated squinting and blinking had assured him that it’d not been double vision. _One_ foxy face was enough to make him want to hurl a brick at where it hurt, but _two_ of them? Fucking hell. 

Further searches had revealed nothing else about the Miya twin brothers. From the blog post, Morisuke had gathered that they’d attended the School of Business Administration at Kobe University and graduated at the top of their class in 2011; and from the news article, that Miya Osamu had been a junior executive of Inarizaki Group, a financial services firm based in Kobe. The firm’s website had made no mention of Miya Atsumu—or Miya Osamu for that matter—listing only the senior executives and a few featured employees, so it was unclear who they actually worked for. It was also unclear if Miya Atsumu had been present at the time of the accident. But none of that mattered to the question that loomed and lingered: what had he been thinking, feeling, hoping when he’d told Morisuke about the Altana treatment? 

Sipping at a cup of freshly brewed coffee, Morisuke contemplated the email that he’d tried to draft but ultimately set aside to read up on the Kudos before going to bed. He needed to talk to Miya, even if the prospect of doing that dredged up foul memories of their meeting at the Ritz-Carlton and a sour aftertaste. Miya might not respond, might sneer at him for the lost opportunities his temper had left in its wake, but he needed to act if only to create the illusion of progress. After that crazy dream, his long deliberation, restless pacing, and constant deleting before midnight seemed like wishy-washy waffling. Fed up with himself, he fired off the simplest email to Miya: _Can I talk to you?_

With that out of the way, he resumed his investigation on the Kudo family. The problem here wasn’t too little information, as had been with the Miya brothers, but too much. Pages after pages of news articles, blog posts, fan sites, forum threads, random tweets detailed the lives of the Kudo celebrities, but most of them comprised useless factoids. Kudo Shinichi couldn’t sing, for example (in fact, “it can kill,” according to a former classmate). 

By the time sunlight swamped the light from his desk lamp, he’d learned: Kudo Yusaku became a trustee of the Landau Foundation about ten years ago; he died in the hospital three weeks after the crash; his most popular book series was the Night Baron series (didn’t the officers in Division 2 talk about a Night Baron virus? some criminals had a morbid sense of humor); his wife Kudo Yukiko, nee Fujimine, was a famous actress but died from childbirth complications; Kudo Shinichi graduated from Teitan High School in 2007 and Harvard University in 2011. 

Morisuke laid his forehead on his desk and closed his eyes, exhausted but nowhere closer to completing the thousand-piece puzzle. Miya hadn’t replied to his email yet, but why should he when it was barely 8 a.m. on a public holiday? _Do you even know what sleep means_ , Morisuke could hear Kuroo berating him again. _No_ , he retorted, as if fighting Imaginary Kuroo won him points. As if arguing with Imaginary Kuroo staved off how much he missed Real Kuroo. The yearning touched every single nerve in his body, like fingertips on the silk strings of a zither, and he felt the urge to squeeze or bite something to rid himself of the tingling sensation that was there yet not there. 

_Stupid_ , he thought and changed out of his pajamas. He had to go to Beika General Hospital first before he met up with Kuroo at Teitan University.

  


* * *

  


>      [Loser Tetsurou]  
>       i love u too yakkun  
>       11:29 PM  
>       im in front of 711  
>       08:54 AM

Despite his best efforts to ignore Kuroo’s message from last night (an infuriating but very late response to his insult about the wind), Morisuke still felt his heart skip a beat when he tapped on the messaging app to reply _I’m three stops away_. 

His hospital visit had been brief, bounded by the travel time and his not date with Kuroo but prior engagement, constricted by the conscious walk through an unfamiliar ward. His mother was fine, or as fine as a coma patient could be, hooked to fewer beeping machines, which ought to put him at ease but somehow triggered the opposite. _Why_ , he’d wondered, folding everything he’d wanted to ask into one word because there was too much to disentangle otherwise. So much that not even he knew what he was really asking, what he really wanted to ask. 

A handful of people got off at Teitan University Station, and Morisuke found the 7-Eleven by the exit but not Kuroo. He furrowed his brows, sweeping his gaze across the sparse crowd. A stupid tall person with duck butt hair should be as conspicuous as Tokyo Tower or Skytree, but all he could see were average-height people going to places, a security guard watching the ticket gates, two girls chatting near a pillar, employees opening their stores, a middle-aged man eating a meat bun outside 7-Eleven. Morisuke turned to the convenience store but only spotted a cashier inside. Was Kuroo using the toilet or something? He pulled out his phone and was in the middle of typing _I’m here, where are you_ when he caught a motion in the glass reflection. He looked at the same time Kuroo clasped his arms around Morisuke’s shoulders from behind. 

“Dammit, Yaku! I wanted to sneak up on you.” 

His heart beating wildly, Morisuke gripped the sleeve of Kuroo’s jacket as if that could stop him from sinking deeper into the bed of cotton candy. “Are you an idiot?” he said in an unsteady voice. 

“I missed you. Did you miss me?” 

Kuroo’s voice, smooth and cocky as usual, was right next to his ear, breath warm against his skin, signaling to his heart to pump more and more blood to his head. “No,” Morisuke murmured, glaring at the tiled floor. 

There was a rush of cool air as Kuroo loosened his hold and stepped around to peer at Morisuke’s face. His eyes twinkled. 

“What?” asked Morisuke, convinced he must be running a fever. A flu would explain the erratic heartbeats, high body temperature, dryness in his mouth, and irrational thoughts bordering on psychosis. 

Kuroo smirked. “Your face is red.” 

“No, it’s not!” Morisuke retorted and struck Kuroo’s chest with the back of his hand. Suddenly the occasional wafts of sugar and spice filled his nose as Kuroo drew him into a hug, chuckling. 

_Fine, I give up._ Pressing himself closer, Morisuke wrapped his arms around Kuroo, tugging at the soft sweater under the unzipped jacket. _At least I’m not the only one_ , he thought, listening to the fast thumps of Kuroo’s heart. When Kuroo pulled away slightly, cupping Morisuke’s face and tilting it upward with a small frown, Morisuke sighed and asked, “What now?” 

“You look tired.” 

Groaning inwardly, Morisuke opened his mouth to protest but found his face buried in Kuroo’s chest again. 

“Alright, alright. I won’t say anything,” Kuroo said, stroking Morisuke’s hair and then his back in hypnotic circles. Moments later, he gave Morisuke a squeeze and a kiss on top of his head, and said, “Okay, so what’s the plan?” 

_Go back to your place and sleep_ , Morisuke thought but pulled away reluctantly and said, “Start walking, I guess. Did you find out their plans?” 

“Who? Oh.” Kuroo kissed the back of Morisuke’s hand after they laced their fingers together. “Most people aren’t around today,” he continued as they headed toward Teitan University. “Koshimizu is going to this manga exhibit in Akihabara. Apparently you have to get there early to pick up tickets, so that’s what she’s doing right now, probably. Haibara-san is going shopping with her sister. No idea where. Wakasa-sensei just said she was going to stay home and take it easy.” 

“Hmm.” Morisuke tore his gaze from Kuroo’s profile without commenting on the honorifics or the manga exhibit (was this a thing?). “How was the dinner last night?” he asked instead. 

Pausing at a crosswalk, Kuroo adjusted his grip on Morisuke’s hand, fingers tapping and pressure changing, altogether distracting. “Good,” he replied after they cut across the street and started climbing the ramp to the IST building. “We went to this fancy Italian restaurant and got pasta.” 

Something in Kuroo’s light tone made Morisuke snort. “Pasta,” he repeated. “Who organized it?” 

“Wakasa-sensei. But it was kind of a joint celebration thing. She and Takeda-sensei collaborated on a project a while back, and their paper was finally accepted by _Nature_.” 

“Nature?” 

“A really prestigious scientific journal.” 

“Oh.” While Morisuke was debating if he should ask about the project, Kuroo bumped against him and directed him to the glass wall. “Again?” he complained when Kuroo looked inside the IST building. “Why are you so fixated on this place?” 

“I’m not. It’s just... I was talking to the undergrad in our group the other day, and he said some of the funding for this building came from the Landau Foundation, so I wanted to—yeah, see? The plaque over there.” 

Alarmed, Morisuke stepped up to the glass and looked in the direction where Kuroo was pointing. Not everything on the brass plaque was legible from that distance, but it was unmistakably embossed with the words _Landau Foundation_. 

Kuroo smirked at him when he looked up, pleased that he’d scored another victory in the mysterious game they’d been playing, and asked, “Can we go explore this building now?” 

Morisuke glowered at Kuroo’s smug expression that was so alike yet so different from the hesitant and playful expressions he’d shown the last time they’d stood on this walkway. Another train rattled past underneath, and Morisuke said, to Kuroo’s delight, “After we’re done with the other one.” 


	20. Change

“I can’t believe I’m assisting in breaking and entering,” Kuroo muttered, crouched beside Morisuke and, although the thick shrubs provided ample cover, tasked with keeping a lookout for suspicious figures. (“You mean responsible citizens,” Kuroo had said dryly. “Nosy people,” Morisuke had replied as he’d knelt in front of the door to pick the lock.) 

“Aren’t lock picking tools illegal?” Kuroo continued. “I forget what the penalty is. A year? Two? Is this a date, by the way? Imagine the love story: ‘I went on a date where we were caught snooping around and ended up in jail.’ But you know what they say. The ones who stick by you through thick and thin are the ones who—” 

When the padlock finally opened with a loud click, so did the lock on the mental chains restraining Morisuke’s frustrations. “Shut up!” he hissed, shoving Kuroo on the shoulder. “If you don’t want to be here, then leave! Nobody’s forcing you to be here.” 

Kuroo gave him a startled look as he steadied himself with one hand on the ground. “I... Sorry,” he said in a meek voice. 

Morisuke pocketed his lock pick set and the padlock, and furrowed his brows at Kuroo, whose rambling monologue suddenly seemed a little different from his usual obnoxious speech pattern. “Are you scared?” he asked, his anger forgotten. 

“What? No, I’m... No, not scared. Just anxious.” 

“Relax. You won’t end up in jail.” 

“I’m not worried about that,” Kuroo said as Morisuke pushed himself to his feet and pulled open the door with a gloved hand. 

Stale air greeted them, as well as a trace of the pungent and putrid odor of chemicals and death escaping—most likely—from the glass containers of snake specimens submerged in yellowish fluid. 

“What the hell is this,” Morisuke said while Kuroo uttered a dumbfounded “Whoa.” They stood by the door, which Morisuke hesitated to pull shut behind them, and surveyed what looked like an abandoned lab-turned-storage with cramped lab benches and dusty plastic containers along the walls. 

“I’m not sure that’s a good idea,” Kuroo said after Morisuke yanked the door shut. “I smell formaldehyde, so we need ventilation.” 

“And risk someone seeing the door open when it should be closed? I don’t like this either. We’ll just have to make this fast.” 

“What’re we looking for anyway?” Kuroo asked as Morisuke moved deeper into the room. “I feel like either your FBI friend was mistaken or she lied to you.” 

Morisuke lifted the cover of the plastic container with the least amount of dust and immediately slammed it shut, repulsed by the sight and smell of snake carcasses. It was the same with another plastic container. _No secret documents, then._ Baffled, he asked, “What are all these dead snakes doing here?” 

“Y’know,” Kuroo said, studying the skeleton of a small snake propped up like a dinosaur display, “I heard there’s a serpentarium somewhere on campus. Maybe this was part of that. Some sort of old research facility.” 

“Snake research?” 

“Yeah.” 

“To do what?” 

“I don’t know. Learn about snakes in general?” Kuroo paused. “Apparently snake venom can treat certain diseases. I’m not familiar with the research, but I know it’s ongoing.” 

Morisuke ducked into the adjacent room, turning around when he thought of something. “Could snake venom be a component of APTX?” 

Kuroo appeared in the doorway and shrugged. “Even if it is, this looks more like a place to hide dead bodies, not a place to create the elixir of life.” 

“Hm.” Morisuke pursed his lips but conceded that Kuroo had a point. The second room was no different from the first: tables strewn with empty but stained beakers and test tubes, a dried sink filled with broken equipment and cobwebs. There was a turn in this room, however, so Morisuke crept along the U-shaped path, squeezing past a shelf of assorted boxes and bottles. “Hey, come here,” he said to Kuroo when he found a trapdoor at the end of the path. 

It was wide enough to admit one person, unlocked, not too heavy, and cleaner than the rest of the room. Opening it, Morisuke took a gulp of the cool air from the basement just as Kuroo joined him to peer at the staircase descending into darkness. 

“Definitely a place to hide dead bodies,” Kuroo observed. “Are we going down there?” 

Morisuke shone his phone’s flashlight at the basement but saw nothing besides the concrete floor and the nearest wall. “I’m going down there,” he said, regretting that he hadn’t brought his gun but he hadn’t considered a university campus to be dangerous grounds. Not to mention... He glanced at Kuroo. “You stay up here.” 

“What?” Kuroo grabbed Morisuke’s arm and stopped him on the staircase. “I’m not letting you go down there by yourself.” 

“Look,” said Morisuke, caught between patience and impatience. His voice and his gaze remained level, but his heart thumped. “I don’t know how deep this goes or where it goes. I don’t want the two of us trapped down there with no way out.” 

“But—” 

“Your phone,” Morisuke continued as he tugged his arm out of Kuroo’s grip. “We’ll use the phone, okay?” 

“Phone? I—okay... Which one? The PSB one?” 

“Yes.” Putting a call through to Kuroo on the speaker, Morisuke climbed down the stairs, illuminating the place with his flashlight. There were stacks of plastic crates and cardboard boxes scattered about the basement, filled with old electronics, but it was the underground passage sloping away from the stairs that piqued his interest. He started speaking to his phone when he heard the stairs creaking behind him. Whipping around to find Kuroo partway down the stairs, he groaned, “I told you—” 

“No, wait, listen,” Kuroo said hurriedly. “I just had a brilliant idea. I’ll stand _on_ the stairs, so I can keep an eye on the door _and_ you at the same time.” 

Morisuke rolled his eyes with a huff and turned away, muttering, “Whatever.” It irked him that he—the veteran here—was being treated like a child who needed adult supervision, but it also relieved him immensely not because someone was watching his back but because he could keep Kuroo more easily in his own sight. Dispel the terrifying thought that something outside his control could happen to Kuroo. 

He shook his head and made his way down the passage. There was a door at the end, twenty to thirty meters away from the staircase. He tried the door handle, surprised when it turned, and surprised again when a latch on the other side prevented the door from opening beyond a crack. The white light from the wide hallway on the other side seemed blinding, reflecting off the waxed floor. A security camera hung from the ceiling, and Morisuke pulled the door shut as quietly as he could. He thought he heard murmurs. 

Returning to the staircase in fast strides, he shoved his phone (call ended and flashlight off) into his pocket and said, “We’re leaving.” 

“What? What did you find?” 

“We’re leaving,” he repeated. “Now. Go.” 

He pushed on Kuroo, who took the cue and scrambled up the stairs. Without thinking, he accepted Kuroo’s hand that hauled him out of the hole. They closed the trapdoor and went back the way they came. In hindsight, Morisuke mused once they were outside and he’d replaced the padlock on the front door, they probably should’ve checked the exit first just as they’d circled the building to assure themselves that it was vacant before entering. 

_Never again,_ he vowed, stripping off his latex gloves and casting a glance at the sparsely occupied parking lot. 

“Are you going to tell me what you saw down there?” Kuroo asked as Morisuke led him toward the IST building. 

Morisuke slowed to a stop and let go of Kuroo’s hand to point at the abandoned lab and then the parking lot, drawing an imaginary line that fell above the underground passage and the hallway. “Sera didn’t lie. Not exactly,” he said and pointed at the ground. “There’s an underground lab here. Actually, now that I think about it, Sera’s map showed an X to the northwest of the IST building, but she never explicitly marked how far away it was or that it was a building to begin with.” 

“Oh,” said Kuroo. “I just assumed... Wait, so you saw the lab?” 

“I saw something that looked like the hallway of a lab. The door was locked from the other side, so either it’s no longer used or it’s used as an exit. But definitely not as an entrance.” 

“But there has to be an entrance...” Kuroo’s voice trailed off, and they both directed their gaze at the IST building. Morisuke waited for Kuroo to flash the infuriating smug grin at him, maybe rub it in his face that they should’ve “explored” the IST building a long time ago, but Kuroo only wore a perplexed expression, evidently lost in thought. 

“Somehow it pisses me off that I can’t even be pissed off at you,” said Morisuke. 

“Huh?” 

“Didn’t you want to ‘explore’ the IST building? Where’s your ‘har har, I told you so’?” 

Kuroo blinked at him, but before Morisuke could ask if he was ill (in the head), his lips curved into a familiar lazy smirk. “I don’t even have to say it anymore because you say it for me, Yakkun.” 

Morisuke scowled and smacked the top of Kuroo’s arm, but his hand found Kuroo’s hand again, clutching it as if to reassure himself that this was still reality, that nothing had changed. That it wasn’t time yet, in this constantly changing world, for him to cope with the change that he feared the most. 

_Once is enough._

  


* * *

  


Investigating the IST building proved fruitful and not fruitful. The plaque acknowledging the contribution from the Landau Foundation also listed the architectural firms, which Morisuke filed away for further investigation. The building, opened four years ago and equipped with “a state-of-the-art telecommunications and multimedia infrastructure,” looked as impressive as it was modern. The Cybertorium, in particular, resembled a smaller version of the United Nations General Assembly hall, except there were two students streaming a movie via the projector when Kuroo poked his head around the door (and withdrew in disappointment because it was occupied). On the other hand, the basement floor housed electrical rooms and custodial closets and other utility vaults, all dully labeled save for a steel door with a card reader. It certainly faced the right direction. 

“I’m guessing it’s this one,” Morisuke said and searched the hallway for security cameras but found none. Could those be on the other side? 

“Wonder if my card works. Should I try it?” Kuroo asked with a quirked eyebrow. 

_Why should it work?_ Morisuke wanted to ask in return. “No, not today,” he said instead. Presumably it wouldn’t work, but they had no idea if the card reader would set off some sort of alarm if they tapped it with an unauthorized card. And if it did work... Never mind the reason why. After the escapade in the abandoned lab, Morisuke realized how stupid it was to have charged into an unknown enemy territory without adequate self-protection. Academia might not be the criminal underworld, but they were dealing with the members of the same organization. 

“You don’t have a bulletproof vest in the TMPD, do you?” he asked on their way out. 

“Er...” said Kuroo, looking uneasy. “No.” 

“We’ll have to get you one then,” Morisuke muttered and pulled out his work phone to send Shirofuku the message: _When will you be available to take measurements for a vest?_

“Man,” Kuroo remarked, “I thought what happened to Bokuto was enough of a reality check, but this is... something else. It really is that dangerous, huh.” 

Morisuke thought about the bandage on Shibayama’s cheek and the dark expression on Daishou’s face and his conversation with Kuroo at the kotatsu. “You regret it now?” he asked but without the sarcasm present the first time he’d posed that question. _You can still back out. You can always back out._

“Nah,” Kuroo replied with a smile that caused Morisuke’s chest to tighten even more. “Just have to recalibrate.” 

“Good,” Morisuke said lightly. 

They turned onto the street heading toward the subway station, and Kuroo asked, “What’re we doing now?” 

“Uh...” Morisuke drew a blank. Exhaustion swept over him like the crash of a large wave following a series of smaller ones. It was too early for lunch or a nap and too nice of a day to do nothing. “I don’t know,” he said. “What do you want to do?” 

“Hmm... Wanna go to a cat cafe?” 

A quiet laugh escaped him as he thought _Sap_ and said, “Yeah, okay.” 

So they went to a cat cafe that Kuroo frequented, where they petted some of the cats, played an ancient Mario game, and flipped through a few volumes of _Natsume Yuujinchou_ until Morisuke dozed off on the sofa, resting against Kuroo’s shoulder. 

The vibration of his phone in his pocket woke him up, and he blinked in confusion at Kuroo’s jacket draped over him. 

“Hey,” whispered Kuroo, who’d exchanged _Natsume Yuujinchou_ for some manga with a big black cat with two tails. 

Morisuke’s phone buzzed again. Still bleary-eyed, he sat up to check the messages.

>       [S.Y. (F)]  
>        totally swamped today  
>        not working over the weekend  
>        so monday?  
>        or just send me the numbers  
>        it’ll be faster  
>        here’s the form  
>        [image]  
>        11:36 AM  
> 

Kuroo leaned over, bumping their shoulders together. “What’s that?”

“Form to take your measurements,” Morisuke murmured. “For the bulletproof vest. You have a tape measure at home?” 

“I think so. I’d have to look for it, though. Are we doing this now?” 

Morisuke put his phone away and stretched. “No, let’s do it later. Are you hungry? I’m kind of hungry. I want gyoza. There’s a nice place in Akasaka. I haven’t been there in a while.” 

“Okay, sleepyhead.” Kuroo smirked, which earned him a glare that became a frown when he looped his arm around Morisuke. “Speaking of Akasaka, there’s an ice rink in Akasaka Sacas. Interested?” he drawled. 

“You’re such a sap,” Morisuke grumbled and gave Kuroo a half-hearted push, aware that he’d donned a coat of porcupine quills to blot out the memories of past dates in Akasaka. In his half-awake state, he’d recommended a restaurant he used to visit every few weeks with Nishinoya—a place that they’d discovered as friends, that’d witnessed many of their dates and the resolution of their quarrels. _The usual place._

It’d changed. Undergone renovation and expansion. The corner table by the fish tank was no more, the plain white china plates had become blue and white porcelain, but they still dipped the gyoza in vinegar and pepper, not soy sauce. Even if it’d remained the same, Morisuke reflected later at the outdoor ice rink (still crowded, still subject to the giant TV screen attached to the adjacent building, still decorated for Christmas but the tree was tall and skinny this year), enough of the world had changed to render it different. 

And part of that world, Morisuke watched with growing exasperation and resignation, didn’t actually know how to skate. He turned around and skated back to Kuroo, who was clinging to the wall and inching forward like someone trudging through deep snow. 

“You don’t know how to skate?” Morisuke exclaimed with arms akimbo. 

Kuroo flushed scarlet. “No...” 

“Then why did you want to come?” 

“Um... I can learn?” 

“I’m not holding your hand.” Morisuke started to skate away, but Kuroo’s hurt expression and his own irritability gnawed at him. An old ghost whispered _don’t regret it_. Sighing in defeat, he swirled around and held out both of his hands. 

“Er,” Kuroo said, slightly at a loss. “You don’t have to force yourself, you know.” 

“Take it before I change my mind.” 

Time passed. Maybe one second, maybe five. It felt like ten. Morisuke looked away, jaw set, and wondered what he would do if Kuroo changed his mind for him. If, in trying not to mess up, he messed up royally. 

Kuroo’s hands felt like how they’d always felt—warm, firm. For an instant, Morisuke didn’t know who was supporting whom in the gentle tug backwards and forwards on the ice, and the thought of being dependent threatened to inflame the residual anger within him, but something else extinguished it before it could flare up. 

“You didn’t want to come here, did you?” Kuroo asked in a quiet voice. 

_Not really,_ Morisuke admitted to himself and swallowed. _But it’s all so stupid._

“HEY HEY HEY!” 

Morisuke jerked while Kuroo stumbled at the loud greeting and the spray of ice when a kid stopped abruptly next to them. They crashed into the low wall, and Morisuke, back against the hard surface and front smothered in a heavy pile of sugar and spice, dug his skates into the ice as he grabbed the top of the wall and Kuroo. 

“Shit, I’m sorry. I’m really sorry. I didn’t mean to crush you,” Kuroo said, recovering his balance, and extricated himself from Morisuke. “You okay?” 

_Peachy,_ Morisuke was about to say, wishing he could stop his heart from beating so furiously, but the kid—Bokuto—piped up, “Whatchu up to, Kuroo? Out on a date?” 

Kuroo, still a little pale, stared at Bokuto and gestured in bewilderment. “Boku—what are you doing out here?” 

“Ice skating.” 

“Yeah, I see that. I mean—” 

“And it’s not Bokuto. It’s Kokuto.” 

“What?” 

“Kokuto. Akaashi came up with an alias for me.” Bokuto puffed out his chest. “He says it makes me sound like a French poet. In a spy film.” 

“Er, great. So where’s Akaashi?” 

Bokuto searched the crowd and pointed at a small distance from them outside the rink. 

“He’s not skating?” Kuroo asked when they spotted Akaashi walking towards them. 

“He says it’s easier to keep an eye on the place that way,” Bokuto explained. “But it’s not like anyone’s going to kidnap me. I think he’s just afraid he can’t keep up with a kid. Hey, you’re Yaku, right? Wanna have a race? Kuroo sucks at this, so we should ditch him.” 

“Bokuto!” Kuroo protested. “Yaku is my date, not yours.” 

“It’s not Bokuto, it’s Kokuto.” 

“I’m never going to get used to calling you that,” Kuroo muttered, oblivious to the withering look that Morisuke had thrown in his direction for his earlier comment. 

“Wanna race?” Bokuto asked Morisuke again. 

He glanced at Kuroo, who had the gall to pout, and then at Akaashi, who had just joined them with a polite nod, and told Bokuto, “I’d like to talk to Akaashi first.” 

“Oh yeah? About the antidote?” asked Bokuto. 

“Sort of.” 

“Okay then. Hi Akaashi. Bye Akaashi,” Bokuto said with a dramatic flourish and skated off. 

“About the antidote?” Kuroo echoed. 

“No, not really. I ran into Akaashi yesterday and asked about Itakura’s autopsy.” Morisuke turned to Akaashi. “Is it too soon for an update?” 

“Not at all,” Akaashi replied. “In fact, I had the answer for you yesterday and tried to give Kuroo-san a call, but my call didn’t go through.” 

Kuroo furrowed his brows and reached for his phone but paused. “When did you call?” 

“Around seven.” 

“Ah, yeah, I was... at a dinner.” 

“I see. In any case, it doesn’t look like Itakura suffered the same kind of heart attack as Moroboshi. The autopsy wasn’t as thorough, but I looked over some of the key results and couldn’t find any oddities.” Akaashi shifted his gaze to Bokuto as the latter skated past with another _hi Akaashi, bye Akaashi_. “Given Itakura’s heart condition, I would say with high confidence that it was an ordinary heart attack.” 

Ambivalent about the outcome, Morisuke nodded and murmured a “Thanks.” 

“I can’t believe you took him out skating,” Kuroo remarked, indicating Bokuto. 

“Well,” said Akaashi, “I can’t keep him locked up inside forever, can I? I’m glad we ran into the two of you. He was not happy to be cut off from the people he knew.” 

“We’ll get the antidote,” Kuroo said after a pause, looking and sounding unusually solemn. 

“He’s discovering the perks of being a child,” Akaashi said as if to lighten the mood. “For example, nobody gives him strange looks now when he orders McDonald’s Happy Meal. He also said he would like both the drug and the antidote so that he could turn into a child or an adult whenever he pleased.” 

Kuroo snorted. “He doesn’t want to stay a child?” 

“He did consider that, until I told him he had to go to school if that happened.” 

Both Kuroo and Morisuke laughed at Akaashi’s deadpan description of mundane reality. Noticing their mirth, Bokuto skated up to them. 

“What’s so funny?” he asked as he came to a stop next to Kuroo and propped his arms on the low wall. 

Kuroo grinned. “That you’d have to go back to grade school if we don’t find the antidote.” 

“That’s not funny!” Bokuto cried. “You have to find the antidote! Or else... Or else I’m gonna steal your date.” 

“Steal my date? How are you gonna—Bokuto!” Kuroo shouted when Bokuto skated around him and yanked on Morisuke’s sleeve. 

“Holy shit!” Morisuke lurched forward, caught off-guard by how strong the not-nine-year-old was. 

Momentum sent him gliding across the ice. Bokuto let go of his sleeve and cheered, infecting the air with a pure, uplifting spirit. The wind brushed against his cheeks, and Morisuke smiled even as Kuroo looked a little forlorn. He remedied it upon completing a loop around the rink, taking Kuroo’s hands again and guiding him across the ice. For the next hour or so, they played a pseudo-game of tag with Bokuto while Morisuke tried to teach Kuroo how to skate. They were both nursing new bruises by the end, but attended by euphoria. 

Rubbing his knee after they’d returned their skates, Kuroo asked, “Where’s Bokuto?” 

“He’s over by the vending machines,” Akaashi replied, eyes fixed on the child figure in an owl sweater on the other side of the ice rink. 

A woman wearing a black coat, sunglasses, and a wide brim hat approached Bokuto as he was making his way back, apparently asking him to take a picture of her in front of the Christmas tree. He tucked his newly purchased bottle of water under his arm and aimed her phone camera at her. 

Kuroo remarked with a snort, “Of all the people here, she had to pick Bokuto. I hope that picture comes out alright.” 

“Strange, isn’t it?” said Akaashi. “I noticed her about fifteen minutes ago. She seems to be alone and has done nothing but watch the crowd and take pictures of the ice rink.” 

“You’ve been watching her all this time?” Kuroo asked, taken aback. 

“I’ve been watching many people all this time,” Akaashi replied. “She’s only one of them.” 

The woman said something to Bokuto when he handed her phone back to her. Whatever it was, it wasn’t a simple thanks. _A compliment?_ Morisuke wondered, judging from Bokuto’s surprise followed by an awkward smile. 

“She’s probably just a tourist,” said Kuroo. “Or a manga artist doing field research.” 

“Perhaps,” Akaashi replied in a neutral tone. 

“Hey hey!” Bokuto greeted as he returned. 

“What did that lady say to you?” Akaashi asked. 

“Oh, you saw her? She just asked me to take a picture. Then she asked me what my name was. I told her ‘Kokuto Mikiya,’” Bokuto said proudly. “She said, ‘Just like the French poet!’” 

Instead of listening to the ensuing conversation about the French poet, Morisuke found himself watching the woman as she took her leave from the area. Nothing about her stood out, but everything about her seemed off somehow. Morisuke frowned. It was probably paranoia triggered by Akaashi’s heightened vigilance and unvoiced concerns. Still. 

“I’ll be right back,” he said and hurried after the woman. 

Weaving through the crowd, he followed her to the nearest street, where she got into the passenger seat of a black Porsche and drove off. As Morisuke jotted down the license plate number on his phone, he couldn’t help but think that the woman had come here for the sole purpose of approaching Bokuto. And she’d succeeded. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Omake #Zura
> 
> Bokuto: It's not Bokuto, it's Kokuto.  
> Zura: It's not Kokuto, it's Katsura.  
> Kuroo: This is not Gintama, and it's not about you!  
> Zura: It's not you, it's Katsura.


	21. Choice

Kuroo was still sitting on the bench by the ice rink, chatting with Bokuto and Akaashi when Morisuke returned. On his way back, he replayed everything the woman had done: glancing at the phone in her right hand, touching her hair over her left ear, opening the single passenger door with her left hand, passing the phone to someone in the car before gathering her long coat and climbing in. Or did she simply put the phone down somewhere to free her right hand? The tinted rear window obscured who else was in the Porsche coupé, but regardless of what actually happened, it would’ve been more natural for her to put her phone in her coat pocket. Did the phone belong to another person? Why would she have it in that case? 

“Where did you go?” Kuroo asked as he reached for Morisuke’s hand. 

“I...” Morisuke’s gaze flitted from Kuroo to Akaashi and then to Bokuto, who suddenly seemed like a real child—gullible, vulnerable, and a target for human traffickers. “I wanted to know where that woman was going. Someone picked her up. I took down the license plate number.” 

Bokuto blurted out, “Whoa, that’s what Akaashi said you went to do. Akaashi, you’re brilliant!” 

“She didn’t do anything criminal though,” Kuroo noted. “You can’t investigate her like this. MLIT isn’t going to cooperate,” he added, naming the ministry in charge of issuing vehicle registration plates. “What if she really was just a tourist?” 

“What if your criminal was just an undercover agent?” Morisuke snapped, yanking at his hand that was in Kuroo’s grip as if he was swinging a gavel to silence opposition. It struck his heart, a sharp realization that physical and mental exhaustion together with past grievance and regret had wiped out his patience. He squeezed Kuroo’s fingers before he could lose hold, and looked away from Kuroo’s apparent perplexity, searching for his breath. 

“It’s probably nothing,” said Akaashi. “If this were another day, none of us would think twice about helping someone take a photo. There’s little she can do with the name Kokuto Mikiya.” 

Morisuke opened his mouth to argue against common sense but only sighed and said, “Yeah.” 

_Yeah, you’re both right. But the PSB has a network of informants for a reason._

“Well, Kokuto-kun,” Akaashi said to Bokuto. “Shall we go get yakiniku?” 

Bokuto whooped. With a nod, Akaashi took off with the not-nine-year-old. 

Once they were out of sight, Kuroo tugged at Morisuke’s hand and said, “You’re tired, aren’t you? Do you want to go back to your place or mine?” 

The implicit understanding in Kuroo’s voice and eyes seemed like an undeserved godsend, lifting the need for Morisuke to utter the words that threatened to twist his tongue. In truth, he wanted to fall asleep on top of Kuroo and forget about the thousands of responsibilities he had to shoulder, but as his focus scattered, his awareness latched onto the bustle of shoppers and the shrieks of excited children around them. “Your place,” he finally replied. 

They didn’t talk on the crowded subway. For most of the trip, Morisuke kept his eyes closed, leaning against Kuroo standing in the corner, pretending to nap. The case refused to rest in his mind, but neither did it solve itself; it staggered through the mirror maze of his thoughts, trapped within copies of its own image until it was knocked to the side by the quasi-cycle of the station jingle, the _doors closing_ announcement, the whine and whistle of the rail. 

He had three things to do in a specific order, and that was all his mind could process. 

“Can you find your tape measure?” he asked Kuroo after they entered the apartment. “We should get your measurements for the vest before it’s too late.” It wouldn’t be in time for the Christmas party in twenty-four hours, but if they needed bulletproof vests for a holiday party hosted by an academic department, they had bigger problems than ensuring their own safety. 

While Kuroo disappeared into the bedroom to look for his tape measure, Morisuke took a seat on the couch and pulled out his work phone. Inuoka, Shibayama’s friend, worked for MLIT, the Ministry of Land, Infrastructure, Transport and Tourism, and had helped them identify a truck a few years ago during a particularly difficult phase of a drug investigation. It’d been a life-or-death situation back then, and it was, in a way, a life-or-death situation now. Morisuke would call Inuoka for a faster turnaround, but since it _was_ a public holiday, he sent a text message: _Can you help me identify the owner of license plate Shinjuku 54, Mi 43-68? It’s for a PSB case._

Putting away his work phone, he opened the email on his personal phone. No response from Miya yet. Either potential criminals took public holidays very seriously, or Miya was ignoring him. Morisuke clicked his tongue. He’d give Miya until Monday before he came up with Plan B. 

He shoved his phone into his pocket out of habit and immediately thought of the mysterious woman in black and her hurried gait through the crowd. He pulled out his phone a second time, holding it by its edges as the woman had done, and watched the ceiling light hide and expose his smeared fingerprints at different angles. Morisuke froze. She wasn’t after Bokuto’s fingerprints, was she? It was a subtle, artful technique, not guaranteed to succeed but highly unlikely to arouse suspicion. Why would she do that though— _if_ that was what she was up to? 

“Yakkun?” 

Morisuke jumped when Kuroo touched his forehead. 

“You okay?” Kuroo asked. “You look like you just saw a ghost.” 

“I...” _I just saw a terrifying possibility._ “I’m okay,” he replied. He had no proof of anything, so there was no point in scaring everyone else. Seeing the tape measure in Kuroo’s hand, he frowned at his personal phone and placed it on the coffee table before he reached for his work phone and opened the file that Shirofuku had sent him. “Take off your clothes,” he said. 

“What?” 

“Take off—” Realizing what he was about to say, Morisuke rolled his eyes with a tired sigh and snatched the tape measure from Kuroo’s hand. “This bulletproof vest goes _under_ your shirt, so take off your sweater and your shirt, or it won’t fit you properly.” 

“Oh.” 

Half-expecting to hear _if you wanted me to strip, you should’ve just said so, Yakkun_ , Morisuke wasn’t sure whether he should be relieved or disappointed that Kuroo peeled off his tops and tossed them onto the couch without a word. “Stand straight and relax,” he said as he stepped up to Kuroo and reached around the other’s torso to grasp the tape measure in both hands. 

For a moment, he was practically hugging Kuroo, cheek brushing against Kuroo’s bare chest that rose with a quiet but sudden inhale. Shirofuku didn’t do it this way, Morisuke knew, but he drew a blank when he tried to recall her brisk, professional, _definitely not_ intimate manner. He pulled away, fixing his eyes on the tape measure as he wrapped it snugly around Kuroo’s chest, and let go of it to record the measurement, realizing belatedly that he should’ve taken the chest and belly measurement in one go. Now he had to hug Kuroo twice. Punk. 

This time he sneaked a glance at Kuroo’s face, but Kuroo was looking at a wall near the ceiling, maybe grimacing, maybe trying not to giggle. Ass. 

“Relax,” he ordered when Kuroo twitched and clenched his fists in reaction to Morisuke running the tape measure down the centerline of his torso. 

“I’m trying to,” Kuroo murmured. “It tickles.” 

Morisuke poked him in the stomach. “I know you’re not ticklish.” 

“Today I am,” Kuroo said defensively and let out a long breath as he grabbed for his shirt. 

“We’re not done yet,” Morisuke said, looking up from the form. “Sit down. Two more to go.” 

“What? Are you serious?” 

“What ‘what’? It’s not like you’re doing anything.” 

“No, but it’s—never mind.” Kuroo moved his clothes out of the way and perched himself on the couch with a nervous smile like someone about to be grilled at an oral exam. 

“Seriously, relax,” Morisuke said as he ruffled Kuroo’s unkempt hair and elicited a sheepish chuckle. He left his hand on Kuroo’s head for a second longer than he’d intended, withdrawing it only after Kuroo lowered his hand as if he’d changed his mind about taking Morisuke’s hand. 

Shirofuku most definitely did not take the last two centerline measurements (jugular notch to belly button and jugular notch to belt buckle) kneeling between the other person’s legs, but Morisuke was too tired to care about the compromising position. Even his glare seemed to have lost its strength and menace when he caught Kuroo blushing. 

“Now we’re done,” Morisuke announced with a clap on Kuroo’s leg and pushed himself to standing. As he keyed in the last two numbers to send to Shirofuku, he could feel himself letting go of the final dock line that’d tied his boat to the shore of espionage, and with that, allowed himself to fall into Kuroo’s lap, to melt into the other’s touch that sought and craved him. 

“That wasn’t fair, Morisuke,” Kuroo whispered, breath warm on his skin. 

“You’re an ass, so you deserved it,” Morisuke muttered as he nuzzled Kuroo’s shoulder. 

“You love me.” 

“Don’t know why I do.” 

“I know why I do.” 

“Hmm...” 

“Want to hear it?” 

“Not really...” 

“Yakkun, Yakkun. What do you want for dinner?” 

“Whatever you want...” 

“Yakkun, are you asleep?” 

 

  


  


And then he was dreaming, of bygone days and the possible, of sunset valleys and an endless night sky, of letting go and holding on.


	22. Cage

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy birthday, [noyabeans](https://archiveofourown.org/users/snowdrops/pseuds/noyabeans)! ( ´ ▽ ` )ﾉ

It’d been years since he last dreamt of Nishinoya. This time they were at a bus stop where Nishinoya asked, _Are you happy?_ Falling ginkgo leaves gave way to emptied coffee cups, and Morisuke realized he wasn’t dreaming anymore when he saw Nishinoya’s strained smile again. 

He pulled the blanket tighter around himself, frowning when cool sheets bunched up on one side, and opened his eyes. He was by himself on the queen-sized bed. There was no clock in the room, but the sunlight told him that it must be past 7 a.m. Burying his face in the pillow, he waited for the jumbled mental film to end as it skipped from the hazy memory of curling up next to Kuroo late last night to the question that Nishinoya would probably never (get to) ask, to the final words that they had exchanged on parting. 

He’d given many reasons centered on his first undercover assignment—the uncertainties, the dangers, the secrecy—all in the context of a recent suicide of an agent a few years his senior, committed to protect the identities of his loved ones after his cover was blown. He was too inexperienced back then to know how much he could handle given the risks of his job and Nishinoya’s own in the bomb disposal squad; he didn’t want to worry, and he didn’t want him to worry. Looking back, he wondered if that was why, vexation and objection aside, he hadn’t stopped Daishou from doing what he could to stay with Mika in spite of his mission. Some ties were simply too tight to cut loose without the rebounding snap hurting both parties even more. 

Maybe Nishinoya had known from the start how much of his logic had been sound, how much fear it’d really contained, and how much it’d been mere convenience. In truth, their strengths that attracted each other and their weaknesses that clashed made for a rocky relationship at times—too much, too difficult to sort out then and there. He was young. That was all. 

With a heavy sigh, Morisuke rolled out of bed and, following the aroma of grilled fish and something sweet, shuffled to the kitchen, still clad in one of Kuroo’s giant, dumb T-shirts that said _Be a warrior, not a worrier._

“Morning, sleepyhead,” Kuroo greeted, his face brightening when Morisuke walked in. “Breakfast is almost ready.” 

“Give me coffee,” Morisuke mumbled as he hugged Kuroo from the side, rubbing his cheek against the other’s shoulder and soaking up the warmth. 

“Yes, yes. Are you wearing underwear?” 

Morisuke swatted at the hand that lifted the shirt from his bare thigh. “Yes, I am! Now make me coffee.” 

“So demanding, Yakkun.” 

Morisuke tensed but relaxed when he detected no edge in Kuroo’s mock accusatory tone. While the fish sizzled in the pan, Kuroo retrieved a mug and a packet of instant coffee from the overhead cupboard. 

“Hey, you want to bring your coffee machine over?” Kuroo asked as he poured hot water into the mug. 

“What am I going to use at home then?” 

“So stay here.” 

Morisuke tensed again but for a different reason. Still leaning against Kuroo, who was stirring the coffee, Morisuke glanced up and thought he caught a mischievous glint in the other’s eyes. The future suddenly seemed too real, one that he’d never dared to consider before, one that continued beyond the current case. Would Kuroo stay with the PSB? Would he stay with him? With the uncertainties, the dangers, the secrecy? Instead of responding, Morisuke took the mug and pushed away from Kuroo. 

Spotting a pie on the counter, he asked, “What’s that?” 

“Uh, that’s for Kenma,” Kuroo replied as he dished up the fish. “He’s coming here later.” 

“Oh. For Christmas?” 

“Um, no... I need his help with something. But don’t worry! It won’t affect our Christmas date.” 

“Who’s worried about that?” 

“Speaking of, are you going as Yaku Morisuke or—what’s your alias again? Oonishi Kouhei?” 

“It’s Konishi!” 

“Konishi? But ‘ko’ means sm—” Kuroo froze under Morisuke’s glare. “Sm—smart! Yes, smart. Definitely smart. Yakkun?!” he cried out when Morisuke spun on his heels. “I have food!” 

Morisuke paused at the door, taking in the ridiculous sight of Kuroo proffering a breakfast tray in a cat-patterned apron; the only thing more ridiculous was the hair that looked like someone had sheared it with a drunk lawn mower. “I’m going to wash my face,” said Morisuke as he set the mug on the counter. His chest ached from the feigned crankiness, from the fondness and affection he hadn’t shown. He would just have to make up for it after he brushed his teeth, he decided. 

It was worth seeing Kuroo’s astonishment when he pulled him into a kiss before he sat down for breakfast, even if he almost regretted it when Kuroo wore a big, dumb grin afterwards and tried to get away with asinine remarks like _you know you look really cute in my shirt, right?_ Scowl or no scowl, Morisuke knew that deep down, he wanted that moment to last, to be the only moment that was and would ever be. But like all moments, it too would pass. 

After they cleared the dining table, Kuroo went into his room for something while Morisuke settled on the couch to check his two phones. No updates from Inuoka yet, but it was barely 9:30 a.m. on a Saturday. Miya, on the other hand, had replied at 10:39 p.m. the night before with the message: _ok~ meet at 72 seasons, tokyo station hotel? 9p sunday?_

Heart hammering, Morisuke replied _fine_ even though the time seemed unusual (the location was less sumptuous than the Ritz-Carlton but not by much—damn rich bastard). He turned off the screen of his phone and placed it on the coffee table just as Kuroo sat down next to him. Pressing himself to Morisuke, Kuroo grinned and held up a key on a volleyball keychain. 

“What’s that?” 

“Key to my place. For you. Now you come here whenever you want. Even if I’m not here.” 

Kuroo’s earlier remark, a casual and careless _so stay here_ , echoed in his mind. “Why?” he asked without thinking if he meant _why would I come here whenever I want_ or _why would I be here if you’re not_ or _why would you give this to me_ (except he knew). 

“Hmm...” Kuroo tilted his head and contemplated the key. “If you don’t want it, then forget it.” 

“Wait!” Morisuke jumped up to grab the key and ended up half-sprawled across Kuroo. He’d been had, he realized when he noticed Kuroo’s pathetic attempt to hold back his mirth, eyes and mouth crinkling into a shit-eating grin. The asshole had been faking the motion to leave. He should’ve known. In fact, Kuroo probably would’ve forced the key into his pocket if he’d really refused. 

“Ass,” he muttered, smacking the key down on the coffee table, and tackled Kuroo in retaliation. 

“Ow, wait, hang on. I landed wrong—let me... okay, yeah, that’s better.” 

Lying on the couch, Kuroo chuckled as he ran his hands along Morisuke’s back. There was something magnetic about his gaze, and it drew Morisuke in until they weren’t communicating by sight anymore but by the rest of their senses, through lips and breath and skin. 

Someone’s phone buzzed, and Morisuke was going to ignore it, but the possibility that it was his work phone and therefore urgent struck him. He broke the kiss, and Kuroo whined, hands reluctantly sliding out from under his shirt as he fumbled for his phone on the coffee table. 

Inuoka had written: _Good morning, Yaku-san! I just checked, but that license plate isn’t in the database. Did you make a typo?_

Morisuke sat up abruptly. “What? What does he mean it isn’t in the database?” 

“What?” Kuroo sat up as well and draped himself around Morisuke. “Who’re you texting?” he asked as Morisuke typed the reply _are you sure it’s not in the database?_ “Yakkun, what’s more important than—wait. License plate? Is this... You got—the PSB has people in MLIT too?” 

Morisuke didn’t respond, his eyes glued to the screen. Seconds seemed like eons. When the reply finally came— _I’m sure! It’s not there_ —he swore. There were only two possibilities: either he really made a mistake when he jotted down the license plate number, or the license plate was fake. Despite his exhaustion yesterday, he trusted his memory more than he trusted that woman. A fake license plate would warrant further investigation, but first, he had something more important to do. 

“Akaashi.” He gripped Kuroo’s arm. “We have to tell Akaashi. What’s his number?” 

“What? It’s not in the database?” 

“Akaashi’s number, Kuroo!” 

“Right. On it.” Kuroo winced when he knocked his knee against the coffee table in his hurry to get up. Moments later, he returned with his iPhone, but instead of making the call, he showed it to Morisuke. “So... my phone’s not really working right now, but this is Akaashi’s number. You’ll have to call him from your phone, I’m afraid.” 

Morisuke paused. “What? How is your phone not working?” 

“I don’t know, but it’s not taking calls. That’s why Kenma’s coming in a bit. To figure out what’s going on.” 

Kuroo’s response raised more questions than answers, but Morisuke batted away the mental question marks and snatched the phone from Kuroo to read off Akaashi’s number. As he waited for Akaashi to pick up, Kuroo slowly reached down and took back his phone. 

“Hello?” said Akaashi. 

“Hi, Akaashi. It’s me, Yaku. We have a problem. I had someone look into the license plate, but it’s not in the MLIT database, which means either I made a mistake or it’s a fake license plate. I’ve never made this kind of mistake before, so I’m inclined to think it’s the latter. That woman must be after Bokuto, but I have no idea why. I mean...” _The fingerprints._

Morisuke jumped at the thud made by the locked front door as someone tried to push it open.

“Oh, that must be Kenma,” Kuroo murmured, crossing the room to open the door, but Kenma inserted a key and unlocked it before he could. 

“That is indeed troubling,” Akaashi was saying. “But we probably shouldn’t speculate without further information. I assume you have plans to investigate this.” 

“Yeah,” Morisuke replied, his thoughts racing. He nodded to Kenma and scooted over on the couch. “I’ll let you know if I find anything,” he added. 

“Thank you,” said Akaashi. “I’ll stay vigilant in the meantime. Is there anything else?” 

Morisuke bit his lip as he considered the issue of fingerprints, but it was a blind guess. Even if he was right, there was nothing they could do to undo the damage. “No,” he decided to say. “Just be careful.” 

“I will.” 

After Morisuke hung up, he went over his options and sent a message to Numai: _If you have time, could you help me track the license plate Shinjuku 54, Mi 43-68 via the N-system? I last saw it near Akasaka Sacas around 4pm Friday. 3 Chome. It’s a black Porsche._

The N-system was a network of cameras installed to record vehicle license plates on major expressways and “strategic locations,” and was controversial in its surveillance nature. He rarely tapped into it, but he knew Numai often did in his monitoring of the extremist groups. Even though he didn’t like to owe people favors, this was critical and Numai had seemed bored out of his mind anyway. 

“It won’t affect your laptop?” Kuroo was asking, and Morisuke glanced up. Kenma, curled up on the couch while Kuroo stood next to him, had hooked up the iPhone to his laptop and was typing in a terminal. 

“There’s nothing on this laptop anyway,” said Kenma. 

“What exactly happened to your phone?” Morisuke asked. 

“It...” Brows furrowed, Kuroo scratched his head, apparently choosing and weighing his words. “Kenma’s roommate tried to call me the other day, but it didn’t go through. I didn’t think much about it until Akaashi said the same thing. It was weird because I wasn’t on the phone when they called, and I didn’t get any notification that there was a missed call. So I had Kenma call me last night as an experiment, but he still got a busy tone. Texts work fine, though.” 

“It’s a virus,” said Kenma. He stopped typing and stared at the terminal with its wall of lime green output. Narrowing his eyes, he disconnected the phone from his laptop and handed it to Kuroo. “Put this in a box and wrap that box in three layers of aluminum foil.” 

“Wait, why?” 

“Kuro, you took physics in high school.” 

Kuroo hesitated but strode to the kitchen and did as instructed. When he returned with the pie and a box wrapped in aluminum foil, Kenma placed his laptop back in his bag and dialed Kuroo’s number from his phone. A few seconds later, he hung up and said, “Okay, your phone doesn’t have signal anymore. Leave it in there until I come up with a fix.” 

Morisuke frowned as he searched his decade-old memories for what he’d learned in high school physics. _A shield that blocks electromagnetic waves._ “That’s... a Faraday cage?” 

“Yeah,” said Kenma. “Kuro’s phone wasn’t accepting calls because it was actually on a call. It’s a variation of the Night Baron virus. I don’t know too much about it, but I’ve heard Shouyou’s cybersecurity friend talk about it. On a computer, it wipes out the entire hard drive. On a phone, it starts a call in the background. Someone was probably eavesdropping on you, Kuro.”


	23. Camouflage

Kenma’s words hit him like a bucket of ice-cold water. The chill spread, slowing his ability to think, to recall, to remember what he’d said to Kuroo and what Kuroo had said to him in their time together. There was always vulnerability in trust, and then there was oversight. 

“For how long?” Morisuke asked in a thin voice. 

“How?” Kuroo asked at the same time, equally stunned. 

“I need more time to dig into the code, but I’ll have to take this back with me,” Kenma replied as he picked up the box. Silence hung in the air, and he glanced at Kuroo. “Is that not okay?” 

Kuroo looked at Morisuke, who read in Kuroo’s pale expression the same reluctance that he was feeling. They shouldn’t drag Kenma deeper into this, and it wasn’t simply because they already had to worry about Bokuto and Akaashi and, on some level, Mika. 

“Would—wouldn’t they know? That it’s with you, I mean,” Kuroo said to Kenma. 

“Well, it depends how good they are.” 

“No,” Morisuke interrupted, shaking his head and inwardly cursing Kuroo for involving Kenma. “It’s not okay. We can’t give this to you. We have a cybersecurity team. We’ll give it to them.” 

The aluminum foil crinkled under Kenma’s fingers, and he placed the box on the coffee table again. After a pause, he said, “You know, cellphones don’t have the best microphones, so it’s not clear how much they could’ve actually overheard.” 

The quiet statement didn’t deliver the same kind of jolt that his earlier words had, but it was a knock on the window obscured by the blinds of panic. Kenma had a point. Anyone who’d tried to talk to someone a short distance away from the phone would know how difficult it could be to make out what they were saying. Nevertheless, Morisuke found that he couldn’t shake off the lingering fear that they were now out in the open and utterly defenseless. 

Kenma sighed. “You two look like it’s the end of the world. I wouldn’t worry that much about it. Night Baron is useless before it’s activated, but it can’t hide itself like most spyware. Shouyou tried to call Kuro on Thursday, so it couldn’t have been much earlier than that.” 

“Thursday...” Morisuke mumbled to himself. _What happened on Thursday?_

“Activated?” asked Kuroo. “How is it activated? How did it get on my phone in the first place?” 

“Like any virus. You probably clicked on a spam link or something.” 

“Spam? But I don’t click on spam. I delete them. I’m not that stupid, Kenma.” 

“It doesn’t have to be obvious spam. Some could be disguised as software updates. Anyway, you must’ve clicked on something that triggered it, intentionally or not.” 

“Wait,” said Morisuke. “This virus couldn’t have been targeting anybody, could it? These things are usually indiscriminate, but this one must’ve been deliberate. They would’ve had to deliver it to his phone specifically, wouldn’t they? What would they have to know? His number?” 

“Hmm, it could also be his email,” said Kenma. “But it was most likely his number.” 

Morisuke watched Kuroo as the realization slid into place. He asked, “Who did you give your number to, recently?” There were indirect ways of obtaining a phone number, but they had to start somewhere, even if it went nowhere. 

“Just you...” Kuroo said slowly, counting his fingers, “Takeda-sensei... and Haibara-san.” 

_No Wakasa?_ Morisuke almost asked but bit the inside of his cheek when he saw Kenma reach for the pie. Kenma had shown little interest in their work the last time they met, only saying “I figured” after Kuroo introduced Morisuke as his “new colleague in law enforcement.” Judging by the way he was packing up the pie and checking his phone, he was still not interested, but that didn’t mean they could or should continue this discussion in front of him. 

“I need to go, by the way,” Kenma said as if he’d sensed the unease underlying the break in the conversation. “Thanks for the pie.” 

“Thanks for your help,” Kuroo replied, looking slightly dispirited. “Sorry for the trouble.” 

“You’re not coming, right?” Kenma asked as he gathered his laptop bag and rose to his feet. 

“Hm? Ah, no... Department party tonight.” Noticing Morisuke’s raised eyebrows, Kuroo added, “There’s also a party at Kenma’s place tonight.” 

“Not my party,” said Kenma. 

“You’re part of it.” 

“No, I’m not. I’ll come back here if it gets too loud.” Kenma opened the front door but stopped and turned toward the two of them. “I don’t know what you’re up to, but there are no healers in the game you’re playing, so try not to die. See you.” 

“Don’t put it that way, Kenma!” Kuroo protested as Kenma pulled the door shut and left behind a cold, harsh reality sneering at them. 

Morisuke dropped his head to his hands and sighed, which became a groan when he realized he was still in Kuroo’s shirt and half-dressed. Kenma must’ve “figured” by now, and Morisuke wondered who else had. They’d never publicized it, although they’d never tried to hide it either. In a surreal moment, he wondered how he would tell his mother when she woke up—because telling her while she was unconscious didn’t amount to anything, because her waking up was a matter of when and not if. It crossed his mind then that they _should_ hide their relationship, perhaps, at least from the enemy, because if the likes of Miya could use his mother without remorse, he could use Kuroo too and twist the blade of that simple yet complicated emotion embedded in his heart. This was a mistake. Falling in love was a mistake. 

“Yaku,” Kuroo said as he sat down beside Morisuke, his movements slow and cautious as if he didn’t want to startle him. The uncertainty in his voice prompted Morisuke to look up with the feeling that they were now walking on cracked glass suspended between two cliffs. “I’m really sorry,” he continued. “I should’ve known earlier that something was wrong with my phone.” 

For once, he seemed small, dwarfed by the guilt that was hardly his to bear. Morisuke leaned in, surprising Kuroo with the contact, and squeezed Kuroo’s hand (even though he should pull away—he should pull away but he couldn’t). 

“It’s not your fault,” he said. “No one could’ve anticipated that.” _If anyone, it should’ve been me._ “What’s done is done. We need to think about what we can do next. Right now we don’t know anything. We don’t know who was listening, and we don’t know why. We don’t even know how much they overheard, but we should probably assume the worst for that.” 

“Bokuto...” Kuroo said, meeting Morisuke’s eyes with a terrified expression. 

“Shit, it would explain that woman, wouldn’t it?” Morisuke murmured. “Does it mean she’s after Bokuto because of APTX? If she’s Miyano Shiho... You didn’t recognize her at all?” 

“No... I mean, she was pretty far away, and she was wearing a hat and sunglasses...” 

“But the way she walked? No similarity at all to—what were their names again? Haibara Ai or Koshimizu Natsuki? Or even Wakasa Rumi?” 

Kuroo furrowed his brows, thought for a moment, and shook his head. “Wakasa-sensei can be really clumsy, so she would’ve tripped herself or dropped her phone or _something_. And it can’t be the other two because—okay, maybe she wore a wig, but Koshimizu has a pixie cut and her hair is brown, Haibara-san has short, strawberry blond hair, whereas the lady we saw had long, black hair.” 

“You just acknowledged that she could’ve worn a wig, so you can’t dismiss the possibility like this. I’d say we should start with Haibara because you gave her your number, but even if she _is_ Miyano Shiho and Sherry, it doesn’t mean that she couldn’t have given your number to Rum or someone else. It also doesn’t mean she couldn’t have asked for it on behalf of someone else. Whatever. I’ll see them at the party later, so we should just come up with a plan for that.”

  


* * *

  


It became less of a plan and more of a cover that they had to agree on because Morisuke was going as Konishi and _not Kuroo’s date_ (or “distant cousin from out of town” or “best friend” or “childhood friend”). The guests were mostly spouses or significant others, Kuroo had argued. 

“I still don’t see what’s so wrong with a simple ‘friend,’” Morisuke grumbled as they entered the Teitan Faculty Club where the Christmas party was held. 

“But I have a lot of friends,” said Kuroo. “Why would I invite you if you weren’t a _special_ friend?” His voice dropped to a whisper as they walked down the hallway decorated with the portraits of nobel laureates. “Don’t secret agents in movies always go to this sort of events as couples? We wouldn’t even have to pretend.” 

Morisuke glared at Kuroo but stopped himself from smacking Kuroo’s arm in response. The hallway opened into a large dining room with a dance floor where people were chatting over wine and hors d’oeuvres. In the corner, a string quartet was performing some classical piece. He took a deep breath. 

“Oh,” said Kuroo. “I see Takeda-sensei and Koshimizu. Should we go talk to them?” 

“Might as well,” Morisuke replied, and they made their way across the room. 

“Kuroo-kun,” Takeda Ittetsu greeted while the woman Morisuke presumed to be Koshimizu Natsuki raised her glass of white wine in salutation and said, “Sup.” She smiled at them, her eyes meeting Morisuke’s, bright with interest. Dressed in hoodie and jeans, she was as Kuroo had described—short brown hair and about Morisuke’s height—so it wasn’t impossible for her to disguise herself as the mysterious woman in black despite the informal air about her. 

Kuroo glanced at Morisuke and said, “This is my... roommate, Konishi Kouhei.” 

_Roommate? Seriously? How is that better than ‘friend’?_

_Well, I mean, it makes sense to invite my roommate if I’m going to a party, because otherwise my roommate would be left all alone on Christmas Eve, and I’m too nice to do that._

_You think your roommate doesn’t have friends of his own?_

_Also, we’re practically roommates, so it wouldn’t exactly be a lie. It’s easier to tell the truth, Yakkun._

“Very nice to meet you, Konishi-kun,” Takeda said with an earnest smile and a bow, which Morisuke returned, acutely aware of how easy or tempting it was to cross Takeda off the suspect list based on first impression alone. _Trust no one. His research is on apoptosis._

Koshimizu said, “To be honest, I thought you’d bring Bokuto.” 

Morisuke stared at Koshimizu, taken aback. The name drop seemed to have caught Kuroo off guard as well but only for a second. Sighing, he replied, “Right. You know him. I forgot.” 

“Everyone who knows you knows him,” Koshimizu said, amused. “Back in college anyway. You were best bros.” 

“We still are,” Kuroo muttered. “He has other things though. What were you and Takeda-sensei talking about before we got here?” 

“The manga exhibit,” said Koshimizu. “I was telling sensei all the wacky things we saw.” 

“It was very intriguing,” Takeda added with a nod. 

“Experience of a lifetime. Yoshida-sensei would love it.” 

“Oh yes, he would. Speaking of which, what do you think he’s planning for this year?” 

“Can’t even begin to imagine. Oh,” Koshimizu said, noticing the blank looks on Morisuke’s and Kuroo’s face. “You two have no idea. Every year—” She interrupted herself when a waiter came up to them with a tray of drinks. 

Kuroo placed a hand on Morisuke’s arm just as he was about to reach for a glass, and said in a low voice, “No alcohol.” 

“I’m not,” Morisuke hissed back. 

“Just making sure.” 

Morisuke huffed and grabbed a glass of orange juice while Kuroo took a glass of water. The waiter then held up a roll of raffle tickets for them. 

“You should take one,” said Koshimizu. “It’s free. There’s a raffle later. Yoshida-sensei comes up with the prizes, and they’re always super crazy. Last year it was this phallic alarm clock.” 

“Oh,” said Morisuke. “I think I’ll pass.” 

“Can I take two then?” Kuroo asked the waiter and, smirking at Morisuke, tore off two tickets. 

“I felt so bad for Wakasa-sensei who won it last year,” Takeda said, covering his face. 

“And then she ‘accidentally’ broke it,” Koshimizu said, making air quotes. “She did say she was going to get her revenge this year. Wonder what she’s plotting. Oh hey, speak of the de... vil?” 

“Wakasa-sensei!” Takeda cried out just as glass shattered on the floor. 

Morisuke turned toward the noise while Takeda and a few others rushed over to help Wakasa and the waiter to their feet. Someone shouted that they would get a broom and a mop before running off. 

“What happened?” Morisuke asked when Kuroo tugged on his arm and they moved out of the way. 

Koshimizu replied, “Wakasa-sensei was waving to someone, didn’t see the waiter, and crashed into him. Doesn’t help that she’s a bit of a klutz.” 

“I see,” Morisuke murmured, watching Wakasa apologize profusely to the waiter. She offered to help clean up the mess, but the person who returned with the broom and the mop told her to _just go sit down please_. “What happens when she’s in the lab?” Morisuke asked. He didn’t know much about biochemistry, but he was pretty sure there were a lot of glass equipment in those labs, possibly other sensitive and fragile instruments too. 

“You don’t want her in the lab,” Koshimizu quipped. “She actually doesn’t spend much time in the lab these days. Professors, you know. Busy with teaching, committee meetings, and grant proposals. But she told us she broke a lot of test tubes when she was a student.” 

“Everyone in our field has broken some test tubes,” Kuroo remarked. 

“Not me,” said Koshimizu. 

“What? Seriously?” 

“I’m not surprised that you have, though. You totally seem like the kind of guy who’d ask ‘what was the dumbest thing you did in the lab’ to make small talk.” 

Kuroo’s face reddened, and Morisuke wondered if he’d asked that question before because of the test tube incident that he’d told him a few days ago. “Now that you mention it, Koshimizu,” Kuroo said idly, “what was the dumbest thing you did in the lab?” 

“Hah, wouldn’t you like to know?” Koshimizu smiled and suddenly leaned closer to Morisuke, who nearly choked on his orange juice when he stepped backward in reaction. “So I’m really curious,” she continued and pointed a thumb at Kuroo. “How did you meet this guy?” 

“Oi,” Kuroo complained. 

They’d anticipated that question and hashed out an answer that contained enough truth to keep their stories simple but also enough untruth to keep their real roles secret. 

“At work,” Morisuke replied. 

“On the forensics team?” Koshimizu asked, eyes widening in surprise. 

“No. On a case. I work at a law firm.” 

“Oh wow. Which one?” 

“Nekoma.” 

“Nekoma? What was the case?” 

“I’m afraid that’s confidential.” 

“Huh. So how did you go from that to _roommates_?” 

Morisuke exchanged a glance with Kuroo. Koshimizu was starting to dig into details that they hadn’t made up but couldn’t dismiss by quoting the confidentiality excuse. “It just happened,” he replied with a shrug. It was a poor answer, meant to kill the conversation, but Koshimizu’s quirked eyebrow indicated a growing curiosity, maybe a penchant for gossip. 

“Did you bring any guest?” Kuroo asked Koshimizu before she could probe further. 

“Nope. Don’t have a boyfriend. Don’t have a roommate either.” 

“What about your sister?” 

“Oh,” Koshimizu gave a small laugh, as if remembering something funny or exasperating. “She doesn’t like going to social events where she doesn’t know anyone, so she’s home tonight.” 

“By herself?” 

“She’s a writer, so she actually enjoys having the evening to herself...” 

While Koshimizu and Kuroo continued their conversation about Koshimizu’s sister, Morisuke found his attention shifting to a different person in the room. There was something familiar about her, but it wasn’t the way she weaved through the crowd without smiling at anyone or saying hello. She paused once to help herself to a drink and threw a glance in his direction. Her short strawberry blond hair stood out, but it wasn’t until she seated herself at an empty table in the corner and tucked her hair behind her ear that Morisuke realized how much she resembled Miyano Elena from that angle. _Mother and daughter._

“That’s Haibara-san,” Koshimizu said suddenly. 

Morisuke turned to stare at her and then at Kuroo, who must’ve noticed that something was off as he frowned in response. 

“It’s so rare to see her here,” Koshimizu continued. “I’m gonna go say hi. It was nice meeting you,” she added, giving Morisuke a quick wave as she headed toward Haibara’s table. 

When she was out of earshot, Kuroo bent down and whispered, “What’s up, Yakkun?” 

“I think it’s her,” Morisuke whispered back, his gaze focused on Haibara, who was responding to something that Koshimizu had said as she pulled out the chair next to her. 

“Who?” 

“That Haibara.” 

“What about her? Is she Rum?” 

“No, not Rum.” Morisuke hesitated. “I think she’s Miyano Shiho.” 

“Miyano Shiho? What? How?” 

“I didn’t even think of this until I saw her. I know her mother, and she looks _a lot_ like her.” 

“Her mother?” 

“Miyano Elena. She’s the doctor in charge of my mother. You know...” 

“Holy shit. What should we do?” 

“I don’t know. I need to think...” Morisuke moved closer to the wall and chewed his lower lip. He’d expected to make a little progress by being here tonight but not _this kind_ of progress. It wasn’t as if he could march up to their suspect and arrest her because what he had was at best circumstantial evidence and at worst pure hallucination. He knew he should talk to her, gather evidence—conclusive evidence—but the more he thought about Miyano Shiho (and Miyano Elena and Miyano Akemi and APTX and everything about them), the angrier he got. 

“Hey, Yakkun, hey.” Kuroo placed his hands on Morisuke’s cheeks and peered at him. “You look really scary right now. Deep breath. Relax.” 

“I—” Morisuke dug his fingers into his palm and swallowed the fury that threatened to bubble up. Kuroo was right. Closing his eyes, he rested his forehead against Kuroo’s chest. _Sugar and spice. Inhale, exhale._ He felt Kuroo’s hands brush against his back followed by a squeeze on his shoulders. 

The music had stopped. Someone was speaking into a microphone, and Morisuke lifted his gaze. Yoshida Shouyou was giving a welcome speech, at the end of which he gestured to the tables and announced that dinner was ready. As people proceeded to their seats, Morisuke forced himself to step away from Kuroo, missing (and hating that he missed) the reassuring contact between them. He was relying more and more on Kuroo, and that frightened him. 

“Where should we sit?” Kuroo asked. 

“I don’t think I can look at her right now,” Morisuke said, leaving the explanation to the unsaid. 

“Hmm...” Kuroo scanned the crowd and suggested, “How about the table where Takeda-sensei is at? He’s with a few students. Mostly the undergrads in our group.” 

“Yeah, sure.” 

Dinner was a buffet. Morisuke piled his plate with meat and vegetables and stuffed his face, seeking comfort in food. He listened to the students as they discussed sports, traded stories about their club activities, and asked for advice about graduate school. His mood recovered, enough to answer Takeda’s question about “Konishi-kun’s” profession and a student’s follow-up question about what it was like to work at “a law firm.” At least this time nobody asked him how he met Kuroo or how they became “roommates.” 

He’d just returned with a second plate of desserts when Yoshida announced that the dance floor was open and that the raffle would be happening in ten minutes _so please stay for that_. Wakasa shouted back that now was the time for anyone who didn’t want to become a victim of the raffle to run away. People laughed in response, and some left their seats, either for the dance floor or to head home for the evening. 

After Takeda bid them goodnight and the students dispersed, Kuroo nudged Morisuke. 

“What?” Morisuke said around a mouthful of chocolate cake. 

“Wanna dance?” Kuroo drawled and added, “After you’re done with your food, that is.” 

Morisuke leveled a stare at him as the music transitioned from cha-cha to tango as if to spite him. “Roommates don’t dance,” he retorted and shoved another bite of cake into his mouth. 

“Pretty sure some roommates do,” Kuroo muttered. Resting his chin on his palm, he addressed the air in front of him, “I’ve decided that I don’t like this Konishi-kun. I bet Yakkun would dance with me. Do you think he’ll dance with me when we get home tonight?” 

Morisuke scowled while heat rose to his cheeks. “Shut up.” 

“Does he know that I really want to—hm?” 

Morisuke froze at the sight of Miyano Haibara approaching them. Closer, he could see the differences between her and Miyano Elena: her face wasn’t as long, her nose slightly flatter, and her hair a bit curlier. While Miyano Elena wasn’t exactly the warmest person he’d met, Miyano Shiho—if that was indeed her—seemed distinctively unapproachable. 

“Kuroo-kun,” she said. Her smooth, soft voice surprised Morisuke, and her tone wasn’t as cold as he thought it’d be. 

“Hi,” Kuroo said, sitting up. 

“Koshimizu-san told me you were good at waltz. Would you mind showing me?” 

Morisuke gaped at Kuroo. He was good at waltz? 

Kuroo said hurriedly, “Don’t believe the nonsense that Koshimizu spouts. I have two left feet.” 

Miyano quirked an eyebrow. “Is that so? I have two right feet, so perhaps we can complement each other. The next dance is waltz. May I have this dance?” 

Speechless, Kuroo looked at Morisuke. 

“What?” said Morisuke. 

“Um...” Slowly rising to his feet, Kuroo said to Miyano, “Okay... Sure... I warned you, though.” 

As they headed to the dance floor and waited for the tango to end, Morisuke rolled his eyes and picked up the egg tart on his plate. Finding the first bite too rubbery, he set it down again. Miyano must have an ulterior motive, so accepting her dance offer was the sensible choice, but Morisuke found a part of himself to be irrationally jealous as he watched Kuroo take her hand and lead her across the dance floor. Kuroo struggled to remember the steps at first, but it quickly became clear that he didn’t have two left feet. 

Koshimizu sat down in Kuroo’s seat and flashed Morisuke a grin. “I’m surprised he didn’t ask you to dance.” 

_He did._ “Technically she asked him,” Morisuke replied, sounding grouchier than he should’ve. 

“I know. I suggested it to her.” She covered her mouth and whispered, “I think she has a crush on him.” 

“Really,” Morisuke said flatly, ready to bet his life that she didn’t, but unable to stop the queasy feeling in his stomach or the lump from forming in his throat. He wasn’t afraid of losing him to a love rival, he told himself. He was afraid of losing him to a criminal organization. He couldn’t do anything about the first, but he could do something about the second. 

“How do you know that he knows waltz?” he asked. 

“I remember he took a ballroom dance class in college,” said Koshimizu. “I don’t actually know how good he is because I wasn’t in that class, but I see he’s pretty good.” She paused. “You’re not just his roommate, are you?” 

“What makes you say that?” 

“His body language is different around you. He also looks at you in a different way.” 

“Does he? What does this have to do with you?” 

“I guess I’m just surprised. That he’d return to academia, I mean. I thought maybe it had to do with you.” 

“What is that supposed to mean?” 

“Did he tell you about London?” 

“London?” 

“I don’t know if you know, but his thesis was pretty controversial. It refuted the results by a prominent scientist who later turned out to have falsified his data. Nobody knew at the time, of course, so Kuroo took a lot of shit for it, especially at the London conference. Wakasa-sensei was there too. Apparently she was one of the few who believed his results at the time and even wanted to hire him as a post-doc, but obviously he took the job with the TMPD instead. So you see why I was surprised that he came back. He says he misses the research, which could be true, but somehow I feel like there’s more to it.”

  



	24. Chasm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> happy new year! happy kuroyaku day! it's been a year since I first posted this fic! happy anniversary!

“What did you say?” 

Koshimizu gave Morisuke a puzzled look. “I said I felt like there was another reason why he came back to academia.” 

“No. Before that. You said Wakasa wanted to hire him as a post-doc.” 

“She did, but he decided to join the TMPD instead.” 

“You mean he knew Wakasa Rumi _before_ he joined the TMPD?” 

“Of course.” 

_Of course?_ Morisuke stared at Koshimizu with incomprehension, unable to connect her outlandish claim to her nonchalant, matter-of-fact tone. 

“He never told you?” she continued. “Maybe he wants to forget about the whole thing then. He did seem pretty surprised when Wakasa-sensei told him she remembered him. She joked that nobody would be able to forget his great hair, but honestly, I don’t think anyone can forget what happened at his talk, let alone Wakasa-sensei. She chaired that session.” 

_Academic circles are pretty small. Sooner or later, you’ll run into someone you know._

Kuroo’s words, innocuous at the time, now lay in new light, the overlooked skeleton at the bottom of a pond suddenly drained of its murky water. He’d meant Wakasa Rumi all along, not Koshimizu, when he spoke of people from the past and lied by omission. Morisuke had misread the signs. His doubts about Rum, his reluctance to accuse the professor, the small oddities here and there... Even his reaction to Wakasa Rumi’s profile at their first meeting. It wasn’t a reaction to her research as Morisuke had thought. It was recognition. 

“Are you okay?” asked Koshimizu. “You don’t look so well.” 

“Excuse me,” Morisuke mumbled and left the table. 

He wanted to run. He wanted to scream. His whole world had flipped, dropping him into the void. Not hearing the waltz, not seeing the dance floor, he made a beeline for the closest door and burst onto the empty terrace. He gulped in the cold air and gripped the balustrade. The fountain below drowned out the music in the background. 

_Calm down._

He shivered in the night chill while he waited for the frantic spinning of his mental wheels to stop. He would be a fool to believe a stranger—a potential suspect—without corroborating the claims first or giving Kuroo a chance to defend himself. He’d already fucked up the meeting with Miya; he couldn’t let that happen again. 

Some things didn’t add up. Koshimizu obviously knew a lot about Kuroo and had no qualms about running her mouth. If he were Kuroo, he wouldn’t risk Koshimizu blabbing to a secret agent. More importantly, he wouldn’t call the investigation into question because it would be more effective to redirect the attention or plant evidence that proved Wakasa’s innocence. And what about Kuroo’s phone? Would the organization bug their own member? Or were they afraid that one of their own had defected? No—how could he have concluded that Kuroo was a member just because he might have known Wakasa beforehand? 

Morisuke jumped when someone draped a jacket around his shoulders. 

Kuroo said, “What’re you doing out here? You’ll catch a cold.” 

Overwhelmed by the warmth, Morisuke pulled on his jacket and dug his fingers into the cloth. He hated the possibility of deception and the cruelty of truth alongside the fragility of what they had. He hated his anger and every emotion in contradiction. He hated his fear. 

“Yaku, are you alright? You seem upset.” 

“I’m fine.” 

He was trembling. He wondered if Kuroo could tell. 

“Er, did you see the raffle prize?” Kuroo asked. “Apparently it’s some sort of toilet-shaped pendant. Koshimizu won it. She was super excited for some reason.” 

“I see.” 

He kept his gaze fixed on the fountain and the shimmering pale blue light. The question plaguing his mind refused to leave the tip of his tongue, as if it knew that once it did, it would be a leap into the chasm with a harness he didn’t fasten. 

“Yakkun... Are you... You’re not jealous that I danced with Miyano, are you? Because that’d be silly. There’s nothing between us. You know that. Right?” 

In the dim light, Kuroo seemed distressed. He was searching Morisuke’s face as much as Morisuke was searching his. Bewilderment. Apprehension. It’d never been reversible, Morisuke realized. He yanked on Kuroo’s lapel while his own jacket fell to the ground. 

“Koshimizu said you knew Wakasa Rumi before this. What do you have to say for yourself?” 

Kuroo froze. There was a whisper of panic, and against his will, Morisuke established the veracity of Koshimizu’s claim. This was too easy to check. Koshimizu would have had to be a moron to lie. 

Kuroo opened his mouth, still hunting for words. “Before... Before what?” 

Morisuke shoved him away. “You know _what_. Do you want me to look up the London conference? They keep the list of speakers, don’t they? And the chair of each session? I can’t believe we talked about London, and you didn’t fucking say anything!” He spun around to leave but tripped over his jacket. 

“Yaku!” Kuroo caught him, and tears of fury stung his eyes as the urge to push Kuroo away clashed with the desire to stay. 

“Don’t touch me.” Morisuke wrenched himself away and flounced down the stairs. 

“Yaku, wait! Yaku—how was I supposed to say anything?” 

“Why couldn’t you?” Morisuke demanded without stopping his footsteps. 

“Because I don’t know how it could’ve helped!” 

“No shit!” 

Morisuke glared when Kuroo rushed ahead to block his path at the bottom of the stairs, and again when he turned around. 

“Yaku, it’s not what you think. Okay, maybe it is, but it’s not that simple. I mean, it is simple, but in a different way. You don’t have to believe me, but at least hear me out. Please.” 

Morisuke clenched his fists at the raw desperation in Kuroo’s voice. Rationality warned him about half-truths and lies; irrationality warned him about the irreparable break if he chose not to listen because he knew—just _knew_ —Kuroo wouldn’t step in front of him a third time. 

“Then fucking speak,” he said. 

“Right.” Kuroo lowered his arms with Morisuke’s jacket in one hand. “It’s true that I met her at the London conference, but we talked for at most fifteen minutes. That was the extent of our contact. There was nothing before, and there was nothing after. We talked about my research and whether or not I was applying for a post-doc because she was looking for one and liked my work. I told her I wasn’t planning on staying in academia, and she said to let her know if I changed my mind. That was it. I swear.” 

“Then why didn’t you say something if that was it? You recognized her profile at our first meeting, didn’t you?” 

“Yaku, I had no idea what my job was supposed to be at that meeting. I only met her once. I barely knew her. I wouldn’t have been able to tell you anything if you asked about her. I didn’t even think she would remember me, a random grad student she met at a conference with a thousand people. _I_ might not have remembered her if she hadn’t stopped this person from questioning my research integrity just because my results contradicted his.” 

“Fine, you didn’t want to complicate an investigation that hadn’t even started. But then after that? Why didn’t you say something when you brought up Koshimizu? You were actually thinking about Wakasa, weren’t you?” 

“I...” Kuroo looked away for a moment, his expression pained. “I thought it’d be better if you didn’t know,” he said in a quiet voice. “You know that they know I’m working for the PSB. We can’t make progress like this. I don’t have proof that Wakasa is Rum, but I can’t get proof if she doesn’t trust me. When I found out that she remembered me, I thought maybe I could use this to convince her that I really changed my mind about academia. We still don’t know who leaked my identity, right? I didn’t want her to think that this was part of some PSB strategy to gain her trust. I...” 

“You wanted her to think that your loyalty didn’t actually lie with the PSB,” Morisuke stated. 

“Except I did a pretty crappy job.” Kuroo attempted a smile, the self-mockery and regret wringing Morisuke’s heart. “I had a long talk with Wakasa the other day, but I don’t think she trusts me yet. I thought I had the resolve to do this, but...” Kuroo looked at Morisuke. “I love you too much, Yaku. I’m really terrified. I’m terrified of losing you. I’m terrified that you’ll never believe me again. I’m... I’m sorry I screwed everything up.” 

Who was it that said _we came from the same nowhere_? Who was it that said _love is giving the other person power to hurt you and trusting them not to_? 

“You, Kuroo Tetsurou, are a fucking idiot. You know that?” Morisuke declared, raising his fist to hit Kuroo’s shoulder, but it carried no force. He dissolved into tears as he stood on tiptoe to embrace Kuroo, knowing the moment Kuroo tightened his arms around him that the other could stab him in the back right then and there—and still it would hurt less than if he chose not to trust him, love him.


	25. Chaos

It felt like twelve lifetimes ago and not twelve hours, Morisuke thought, fingering the volleyball keychain in his pocket while Kuroo unlocked the door to his apartment. He’d called it _home_ for Morisuke, using a loaded yet convenient word without forethought or permission in his earlier murmur of _let’s go home._

Overtaken by emotion, Morisuke pushed Kuroo into the apartment once the door opened. They stumbled into a wall, clutching each other. Morisuke breathed in the fainter than usual scent of sugar and spice, baffled by the fleeting thought that there wasn’t enough Kuroo because it had always been too much, too much. 

“Yaku, let me get the door,” Kuroo said as he fumbled with the door and its lock while Morisuke clung to him like a cat that had dug its claws into a swaying branch. He flipped the light switch and gave Morisuke a questioning look. 

The train ride back had been subdued. Morisuke blamed the mental exhaustion, but there was something else that he didn’t want to find out—not now. He slipped his hands into Kuroo’s and laced their fingers together, trying to erase the image of Kuroo holding Miyano Shiho’s hand as they twirled across the dance floor. 

“Didn’t you want to dance?” he asked in a low voice, still pressed against Kuroo, who chuckled in response and moved their linked hands along a small arc. 

“This isn’t how you ask someone to dance, Yakkun. This is how you try to seduce someone.” 

Morisuke scowled, his cheeks burning as he tore his gaze away but didn’t otherwise budge. He wanted to rip their clothes off and eliminate the last few millimeters of distance between them, to throw away their masks and abandon themselves to the most primal forms of expression, to wipe out their worries and forget that a world existed outside, but something shackled him. 

Kuroo extracted his hands and ran them along Morisuke’s sides, stopping at the hems. “Yaku,” he said and caught Morisuke’s hands before they could reach under his shirt. “Listen. You can do whatever you want to me later, but there’s something I have to tell you first.” 

Morisuke gripped Kuroo’s fingers, forehead resting on the other’s chest. “I don’t want to hear it.” 

“Please. It’s about Bokuto.” 

“I don’t want to hear it,” he repeated in a harsher voice, squeezing his eyes shut as if that could block out the sounds as well. He was sick of secrets and revelations. Why couldn’t he just dive into oblivion? 

“Yaku, you’ll be doing exactly what she wants if you don’t listen to this. She doesn’t want me to tell anyone.” 

Morisuke’s head whipped up. Kuroo’s tremulous voice and grim look alarmed him. “Who?” 

“Miyano Shiho. Haibara Ai. The one who made APTX.” 

“What did she say?” 

“Let’s sit down first.” 

“What did she say?” Morisuke asked again after they sat down on the couch. 

Kuroo buried his head in his hands for a moment and said, “She knows about Bokuto. That he shrunk, I mean. And she knows we want the antidote. She was the one who tapped my phone.” 

Shaking in anger, Morisuke swore. “But didn’t Kenma say...” 

“I asked her the same thing. She said we underestimated Night Baron and its signal processing power. I think she heard everything.” 

“Shit. Shit... What does she want?” 

“She... She wants to meet Bokuto. She wants to know what happened to him.” 

“We’re not handing him over,” Morisuke declared. “She can turn herself in first.” 

“Yaku, she says she can help us find the antidote.” 

“And you fucking believe her?” 

“I don’t. I’m telling you this because I don’t believe her promises or her threats. Not completely anyway.” When Morisuke frowned at him, he continued, “We can’t sit here and do nothing. This involves Bokuto’s life. It also... She made two threats. The first one is probably an empty threat. She said she’ll destroy everything about APTX if she doesn’t get to meet Bokuto. I don’t believe she can carry this out. She cares too much about her work to do this without a backup. But the second one. She said if I told you, she’ll tell the organization higher-ups who the PSB mole is.” 

_Daishou. His alias is Daitou Yuu. Remember that._

“Then why did you tell me?” Morisuke yelled, seizing Kuroo’s collar. 

“What else am I supposed to do? Save him myself? I don’t know where he is. He doesn’t know who I am. Who I work for, that is. I can’t drag Mika into this.” 

Morisuke shoved Kuroo away out of frustration with himself. He’d considered the possibility of Kuroo and Daishou accidentally blowing each other’s cover, but he’d never expected _himself_ to become the one responsible for a blunder like this. _Fuck._ Why did he tell Kuroo about Daishou? What made it necessary? His original plan was to keep it a secret, so why? _Because they know each other. They know..._ Why hadn’t he considered that possibility beforehand? Why hadn’t he—

“Yakkun, hey, listen,” Kuroo said, touching his elbow. 

“It’s my fault,” he muttered. “This is my fault. Shit. I should’ve—” 

“No, Yaku, listen. I can’t say she won’t do it, but I don’t see what she’ll gain from it.” 

“What? Why? Why wouldn’t she gain from it?” 

“Because she’d ruin her only chance to meet Bokuto. We need the antidote, but we don’t need her for the antidote. She needs Bokuto to study the effects of APTX. If Daishou is killed, she’d never—” 

“No, no, no.” Morisuke shook his head. “It’s not that simple. She knows Daishou’s real identity, so it’s a matter of when she blows his cover, not if. She can do it after she meets Bokuto. You can’t guarantee that she won’t. Why do you think criminals silence people by killing them? We can’t do that, though. Our only option is to capture her. She made that threat to avoid capture, but we have to do this. We have to... When did she say she wanted to meet Bokuto? How?” 

“She just said we’d discuss the details later. A waltz is too short for—” 

“Okay, fine. That means we have some room to negotiate. This is something we have to discuss with Akaashi and Bokuto. And maybe a few others in the PSB. But before we do that, we have to ensure Daishou’s safety. Shit. I have to make a trip to Blue Parrot.” 

“What? Right now?” Kuroo asked as Morisuke headed for the front door. “Is he even going to be there?” 

“Probably not. But I’ll leave a message there,” Morisuke said, putting on his jacket. “Also I really need a drink.” 

“Oh no, you don’t!” Kuroo leaped to his feet and grabbed Morisuke as he reached for his shoes. 

“What the fuck, Kuroo? Let me go!” 

“I don’t want to haul your drunk ass back from that bar again,” Kuroo said, wrestling Morisuke away from the door. “If you really want a drink—” 

“Put me down, you—” 

“We can—ow... get some from Kenma’s party next door. Dammit, Yakkun.” He flung Morisuke to the couch and pinned him there. “You’re no fun when you’re drunk, you know?” 

“That’s not the—I have to send a life-and-death message!” Morisuke snapped, glowering but no longer wriggling. 

“So give him a call. It’s faster. Unless you think your phone’s tapped as well.” Kuroo paused. “If you really have to go, I’ll go with you. But you’re not drinking.” 

Morisuke hissed but only managed to kick the armrest in protest from underneath Kuroo. They stared at each other, one waiting for the decision and the other weighing the options. Morisuke tugged on his arms and complained, “I need my hands to call him, stupid.” 

Kuroo looked abashed as he stepped away from the couch and asked, “Should I go outside?” 

“What? Just sit down,” Morisuke said, exasperated. Sitting up, he fished his work phone out of his pocket and dialed the number to Blue Parrot. 

Terushima picked up after five rings and greeted in a singsong voice, “Blue Parrot. How may I help you?” 

“It’s me. Konishi.” 

“Why, hello, my friend! What’s up?” 

Morisuke bit his lip. They’d agreed upon an emergency code at the start of this mission, but he had hoped that the day to use it would never come. “Remember the friend I brought to your bar the other day? The one who loves cognac? Well, he needs to stop drinking. Next time he shows up at your bar, kick him out. Tell him to quit, or else he’s going to drink himself to death.” 

There was a pause, the background chatter at the bar a tinny buzz through the receiver. “Got it,” said Terushima. “I’ll look out for him.” 

“Thanks.” 

“Anything else?” 

“No. That’s all.” 

“Take care then.” 

Morisuke ended the call and heaved a sigh. There was little he could do now except hope that Daishou would receive the message before it was too late. 

“Wow,” said Kuroo, and Morisuke blinked at him. “That secret code was, well, brilliant.” 

“Ha,” Morisuke said weakly, too anxious to recount the meeting where they’d come up with the code. He flopped down onto Kuroo’s lap, closing his eyes, and relaxed under the other’s touch, a tentative caress on his back. 

“Do you still want a drink?” asked Kuroo. “Kenma’s roommate usually has beer at his parties.” 

“I hate beer,” Morisuke mumbled. 

“So...” 

“It’s fine. I want a bath instead.” 

Kuroo’s hand paused at the suggestion and then traced Morisuke’s spine, sending shivers that reached Morisuke’s toes and fingertips. “Yeah,” he whispered. “Bath sounds good.”

  


* * *

  


Bath turned into an intense make-out session that ended in a stress-relief session. Spent but sated, Morisuke fell asleep snuggling against Kuroo. He woke up once before dawn because Kuroo couldn’t sleep and was browsing through Haibara Ai’s research papers for clues about APTX, but they fell asleep again until Kenma startled them awake when he showed up at ten in search of breakfast because “Shouyou” was still passed out. 

He’d asked Shouyou’s cybersecurity friend about Night Baron, Kenma told them over steamed buns. Unlike the destructive computer variant, the phone variant was traceable, but if the other party had used someone else’s device to send the virus, it’d be virtually impossible to uncover the true origin of the virus. 

Still worth a shot, Morisuke decided, since they could use it as evidence against Miyano Shiho if they were successful. To turn the tables on her, however, they needed Akaashi’s and Bokuto’s input and cooperation. After Kenma left (but not without asking where Bokuto was because he hadn’t answered Shouyou’s call in a week), Morisuke called Akaashi and learned that the two of them were at Disneyland for the day. _So much the better,_ Morisuke replied, pinching the bridge of his nose. It would’ve been too risky for them to meet up at Kuroo’s apartment anyway. Who could guarantee that the organization hadn’t placed the apartment under surveillance? On the other hand, going to a crowded place like Disneyland would make it easy for them to shake off anyone tailing them. 

They settled on meeting up at the Country Bear Theater, which was at a four-way junction deep into the park. They would move to a cafe afterwards. Amusement parks were cursed, Morisuke concluded, starting from the incident that got Bokuto shrunk in the first place to this meeting where they planned how to reverse everything. 

It was late afternoon by the time they worked out a plan. Morisuke would have to file a request for reinforcements, but given that Numai and his team had been flying paper planes down the hallway all week to fill time, he didn’t think this would be a show-stopper. The rest, they would have to adapt according to Miyano Shiho’s actual demands. 

In no mood to go on any ride in the park, he left with Kuroo at sundown. They dropped by Beika General Hospital to check on his mother but didn’t stay for more than ten minutes. Seeing his mother at the mercy of the hospital staff reminded him of Miya and the meeting in a few hours, of a task he had yet to do. 

_I need to print something,_ he told Kuroo on their way to his apartment where he also picked up a change of clothes. _I’m meeting Miya tonight._

 _Twins?_ Kuroo asked when Morisuke showed him the photo of Miya Atsumu and Miya Osamu. 

_Have you seen them before?_

_No... Should I have?_

_They know Miyano Shiho’s mother, so they might know Miyano Shiho too. Just be on the lookout._

_Are you meeting him by yourself?_

There’d never been any statement, explicit or implicit, declaring this to be a private meeting. In principle, he could bring the entire PSB if he should so wish. Without proof and with his mother in the hospital, however, he had little choice in reality. _There’s nothing you can do even if you go,_ he told Kuroo, who flashed a resigned smile in response. 

_No, I guess not. Are you coming back to your place or mine afterwards?_

Morisuke hesitated. He wasn’t Kuroo’s “roommate” (not really), and his apartment was closer to his office, except... _I need to bring your phone to the PSB tomorrow, and it’s still at your place._

_I’m wounded, Yakkun. You wouldn’t come back to me if it weren’t for my phone?_

Morisuke rolled his eyes, turning to leave. Stopping him, Kuroo pulled him into a quick hug and whispered, _Be careful._

  


* * *

  


Miya had sent another email late afternoon, telling Morisuke that he’d booked a private room at 72 Seasons, the secluded kaiseki restaurant in the basement of Tokyo Station Hotel. When the waitress in a blue kimono showed Morisuke the room, Miya (who was taller than he’d realized) was standing in front of an ikebana arrangement and a painting of a fox, the only decorations in a room surrounded by white shades reaching the floor. A small luggage sat in the far corner. 

Morisuke frowned. “Are you leaving? Or did you just get back from somewhere?” 

Smiling, Miya took a seat at the table for four. “Just got back.” 

“From?” 

“Hyogo.” 

_Hyogo?_ “What were you—” 

The waitress knocked and entered with the appetizers. Clenching his jaw, Morisuke sat down across from Miya. 

After the waitress left, Miya picked up his chopsticks and said, looking at Morisuke, “Do dig in. There’s a minimum order of fifteen thousand yen per person here.” 

“Nobody asked you to book this place,” Morisuke replied, scowling. Did that count as a threat? _Eat, or else._

“Can’t help it. This is one of the few places that are bug-free.” 

_What?_ Morisuke was about to say when it clicked. He didn’t mean _bugs_ as in _cockroaches_ but _bugs_ as in _listening devices_. “And the Ritz-Carlton has bugs?” 

Chewing, Miya pointed at the spinach salad. “The food here is really good too.” He swallowed and added, “It’s not poisoned. Or do you want to swap plates?” 

“It’s fine.” Morisuke took a bite grudgingly, not hungry because he’d had dinner, but unable to waste the food or find fault with it. A thought occurred to him. “Would it benefit you to poison me?” 

“Why? It’d ruin my meal if you dropped dead in the middle.” 

It wasn’t quite the answer, but it was unexpectedly candid. As Morisuke reached for his tea, he saw, again, the scene of Miyano Akemi poisoning her FBI boyfriend inside the sushi restaurant. They both had siblings, one who supplied the poison to kill and the other ready to kill in return. Morisuke pulled out the photo he’d printed and slapped it down in front of Miya, who glanced at it with curiosity that transformed into something akin to amusement. 

“Are you Miya Atsumu or Miya Osamu?” 

“What do you think?” 

If he believed the caption on the blog and the match in hair color, the Miya in front of him was Atsumu. But perhaps every pair of identical twins had thought of the prank where they pretended to be each other. He shoved the photo back into his pocket as the waitress returned with the second course. The sliding door closed after the waitress, and Morisuke asked, “Were you there when your brother got into the accident?” 

Miya dipped the sashimi into the sauce and remarked, “You’ve done your research.” 

“Were you there?” Morisuke repeated. 

“Does it make a difference?” 

_Does it?_ Morisuke furrowed his brows. It would imply that Miya Atsumu, besides Miya Osamu, had ties with Inarizaki Group and potentially the Landau Foundation or Kudo Yusaku, but did it make a difference when it came to Altana Pharmaceuticals? “What did _you_ pay for the Altana treatment?” 

A shadow crossed Miya’s face, but Morisuke couldn’t tell what irritated him: the question or the answer. Morisuke’s phone buzzed, but he ignored it as Miya responded, “Let’s put it this way. When you’re faced with the choice of family and not family, you should pick family.” 

“Are you still trying to tell me that I should pick my mother over my job?” 

“Did I ever say it was an either-or choice?” 

“What?” 

“I said ‘information.’ I never said what _kind_ of information. That’d be entirely up to you. You’re in the business of espionage. Don’t you know what double agents are? You were just too stupid to realize you could be one yourself and turn this to your advantage.” 

Morisuke stared at Miya. He should be offended by the other’s condescending tone, but he felt confused, not indignant. “Whose side are you on, exactly?” 

“My own.” 

“Why are you doing this? What do you want?” 

“Do you know what ASACA is capable of? ‘Samu’s treatment almost failed, but they managed to fix it at the last minute because we share the same genome. It could’ve been avoided. Your average AI algorithm needs a lot of data, but not ASACA.” 

“You want ASACA? You want ASACA, so you try to take out my mother?” Morisuke raised his voice, forgetting that his mother was officially a stroke patient, not a victim of crime. 

“Your mother’s life is in someone else’s hands right now, but that doesn’t mean everyone wants her dead. What I want and what the organization wants are completely different. Get it?” 

_We may look like we’re playing poker, but we’re actually playing blackjack._

“Does this have something to do with Oikawa?” Morisuke asked. “Is that why you used your real name?” It’d bothered him ever since he’d found out about Miya Osamu, that someone from the organization—a member with a code name no less—would reveal his real name, even if it was done in a roundabout way. Had he been planting clues because he couldn’t utter them openly? 

“Ah, Oikawa Tooru...” Miya said as he refilled his tea. His phone beeped, and Morisuke watched him as he pulled out a black iPhone to check the message. His expression grew dark, but after he met Morisuke’s eyes, he smiled and said, “I have a feeling you should check your phone too.” 

Giving him a suspicious look, Morisuke checked the phone that had buzzed earlier, holding it out of Miya’s view. Kuguri was the one who sent the message. 

[K. Nao]  
Code Red. Haido H.

Morisuke’s hand started to shake. _Code Red_ was only used when someone’s life was in danger. If Kuguri was reporting to him directly instead of Numai, it could only mean that something had happened to Mika.


	26. Christmas

Morisuke sprang out of the taxi without collecting his change and dashed into the emergency department of Haido Hospital, skidding to a stop in front of the waiting room. Kuguri, standing near the doorway, nodded to him. Daishou sat in a chair with his head bowed and hands clasped, elbows on his knees. At the sight of the blood stains on Daishou’s clothes, Morisuke drew a shuddering breath. He turned to Kai, who’d risen to his feet, and asked, “How’s Mika?” His voice cracked. 

Kai indicated the monitor across the room. Only one patient was still in surgery at this hour: Yamaka Mika. 

“What happened exactly?” Morisuke asked, looking from Kai to Kuguri. Daishou remained motionless. 

“Yamaka-san was shot,” Kuguri replied. “Left shoulder. It’s my responsibility for not stopping it in time.” 

“It’s not your fault,” Daishou interrupted. Rage had sharpened the edge in his voice and hardened his gaze, but he held it down until his knuckles turned white. “It’s Miyano Akemi,” he said, meeting Morisuke’s eyes. “We have her in custody.” 

“What?” said Morisuke, stunned. “Who?” 

Suddenly, Miya’s response to his question _how did you know_ made sense—the first half of it anyway: _Cause and effect, of course. But I’m washing my hands of this matter._

“Miyano Akemi?” Morisuke repeated. “What? How—” Miyano Akemi was Miyano Shiho’s sister; Miyano Shiho knew Daishou’s real identity. “Did she... Were you with Mika at the time? Was her target _you_?” 

“That’s what I thought at first,” said Daishou. “That woman can’t aim for crap, not like her sister. Except she tried again after Kuguri got her. She missed, but that one was definitely meant for Mika-chan. Bitch.” 

“You mean her target was Mika? Why?” 

“Don’t ask me. Ask her. All I know is that she’s going to pay for this,” Daishou muttered. 

Kai said, “We can talk to her in about half an hour. She just got out of surgery.” 

Morisuke gave Kai a wide-eyed look that he then directed at Kuguri, who answered, “I fired at her leg to disable her. I’ve already filed a report.” 

Kai added, “I’ve also sent for an officer to stand guard outside of her room. Don’t worry.” 

Rubbing his temples, Morisuke sank into a chair and said, “Thanks, Kai. For being on top of everything. You too, Kuguri...” Mika was still in surgery, but it would’ve been unthinkable without Kuguri. On Christmas, no less. “Daishou,” he said, getting the bare minimum of a reaction. “You’re off the case. Once Mika is better, we’re sending both of you away until it’s safe for you to return.” 

“The org knows,” Daishou observed. 

“The org knows,” Morisuke echoed, guilt weighing on his shoulders and his heart. His only consolation—if it counted as consolation—was that they’d captured Miyano Akemi, alias Hirota Masami, the person who’d approached his mother and (perhaps) put her into coma. Now he had leverage against Miyano Elena and Miyano Shiho to save his mother and Bokuto, but if something happened to Mika... He shook his head. 

“Well, here’s my final report,” said Daishou. Kuguri excused himself to go to the restroom. “I dug up something about Moscato,” he continued, and it took Morisuke two seconds to remember that Moscato was Miya’s code name. “He’s a recruiter for the org and reports directly to ‘that person,’ so he’s really high up in the ranks. But he’s fairly new. Received his code name about six months ago.” 

_Six months ago... June?_ Miya Osamu and Kudo Yusaku got into the car accident at the end of March. Kudo Yusaku died in April. Did Miya Atsumu join the organization after his twin brother recovered from the Altana treatment? Or was he a member all along and just got a promotion? When did he meet Oikawa? 

“Something’s happening to the org,” Daishou added. “I know I reported on this before, but I have a better idea of what’s going on now. Factions. I’m not sure what the exact cause is, but I think it has to do with Moscato. Jealousy, maybe. That he rose too quickly. He’s also the only member I know to have connections with the Landau Foundation.” 

“What kind of connections?” Morisuke asked as he recalled that Kudo Yusaku had been a trustee of the Landau Foundation. 

“I don’t know. I didn’t get that far.” 

“Would Miyano Akemi know?” asked Kai. 

“I doubt it,” said Daishou. “She doesn’t even have a code name. She probably knows less than I do. It’s her sister Sherry who’s the smart one and the rising star.” 

Kai sighed. “I support Yaku’s decision to pull you out, but at the same time—” 

Kuguri knocked on the door and entered, followed by the doctor. Daishou stood up in a rush. Belatedly, Morisuke noticed that Mika’s name had disappeared from the monitor. 

“Good news,” the doctor said with a reassuring smile. “The surgery was a success. Yamaka-san is still recovering from the anesthetic, but she should be awake in about thirty to forty minutes.” 

“Can I see her now?” Daishou asked, his tone filled with both relief and anxiety. “I want to be by her side when she wakes up.” 

“Just the one of you then,” the doctor said after glancing at everyone, and led Daishou down the hallway. 

“Kuguri,” said Morisuke. “I know you’re tired, but I’m worried about Daishou and Mika’s safety...” 

“I understand. I’ll watch over them tonight.” 

Morisuke opened his mouth to say that he should work in shifts with someone else, but he’d already left with a small bow. 

Kai said, “He told Numai about this before you got here. I’m sure Numai will send someone from his team to help out. They’re close to Daishou after all.” He paused. “You look exhausted, Yaku. It’s late. We can question Miyano Akemi tomorrow.” 

“No. I want to talk to her now. Where is she? She’s not in the same wing as Mika, is she?” 

“She’s not. Alright, let’s go.”

  


* * *

  


Himekawa, a young officer who’d worked with Kai on a previous case, saluted them when they arrived at Miyano Akemi’s hospital room. The nurse had checked on her ten minutes ago, Himekawa informed them. She was awake and well. 

Morisuke inhaled a deep breath and flexed his fingers, determined to stay calm and professional. After exchanging a glance with Kai, he knocked and opened the door. Miyano Akemi looked distinctively Japanese—nothing like her sister or her mother of foreign descent. She also lacked their cool demeanor, only able to show off her wounded pride with the lift of her chin, too pale and weak for her hostility to be effective. Seeing her long black hair, Morisuke thought of the woman at the ice rink. 

“Miyano Akemi,” he said after he closed the door. “Or should I call you Hirota Masami?” 

She gripped her fingers and pressed her lips together, letting time pass to try the other side’s patience. “I know what you want to know,” she finally said. “But I want my sister freed from the organization first, or I won’t say a word.” 

“What?” Morisuke stared at her in disbelief. “You want to _negotiate_? Who the fuck do you think you are?” 

Kai placed a hand on Morisuke’s shoulder. “Miyano-san,” he said as he stepped forward. “It sounds like you need our help to save your sister, but there’s nothing we can do if you don’t tell us anything. Who is your sister? Where is she? Why did you attack an innocent bystander if you’re trying to save your sister?” 

Akemi scoffed. “Innocent bystander? Are they really innocent? There’s no way that you have no idea what Daitou Yuu did. He was the mole that the organization was after, but he made it look like it was Dai-kun. Dai-kun was going to help us escape, and the FBI was going to protect us. We were so close, but now it was all for nothing. Because of Daitou Yuu. Because of you PSB!” 

“Dai-kun?” asked Kai. 

Morisuke furrowed his brows. “Moroboshi Dai. FBI undercover.” _Sera Masumi’s brother._ He said to Akemi, “You killed him yourself.” 

“I had no choice,” she replied in a trembling voice as she wiped her tears away. “If I didn’t do that, my sister and I would never have another chance to leave the organization. I can’t let that happen. Dai-kun knew. He said we could go to his sister if anything happened to him, but I never found her. Instead I found out who the real mole was. So I made a deal with the organization that my sister and I would go free after I got rid of the mole for them. But that would’ve been too easy. Too easy for him. I had to... I had to let him know what it felt like to have something ripped away from you.” 

Kai caught Morisuke’s arm to stop him from stomping up to Akemi. 

“What about Yaku Chizuru?” Morisuke raised his voice. “Is it the same fucking reason?” 

Taken aback, she shook her head and averted her gaze. “No... What happened to Chizuru-sensei was beyond my control.” 

“Don’t call her that—”

“Yaku,” said Kai. “Let her finish.” 

His work phone began to buzz, but he reached into his pocket to ignore the call. Nothing was more important than protecting his mother right now. He glared at Akemi, challenging her to continue. 

“I have nothing against you or your mother,” she said. “It’s the higher-ups. They wanted to buy ASACA from her, but she refused. So they wanted to get rid of her because they didn’t want her to keep developing ASACA. But then... But then one of the higher-ups said that rather than killing her, they could use her to get information from the PSB because, well, because of you. You must know this already.” 

Morisuke silenced his phone a second time and clenched his fists. He wanted to slam the door open and walk away from the hospital room where he was breathing the same stale air as someone he never wanted to see again, but there was more he had to know before he could do that. “Who was that higher-up and what did they do to my mom?” he nearly shouted. 

“If I tell you, will you help my sister—”

“You are in no fucking position to negotiate!” 

“Yaku, calm down,” Kai said as he held him back. “Miyano-san, as long as you’ve told us the truth and tell us what we need to know in order to help your sister, we’ll do our best.” 

“Kai!” 

“Yaku, it’s okay. It’ll be okay. Miyano-san?” 

“It’s Moscato. I believe you’ve met him already,” she said, confirming Morisuke’s suspicion that it was Miya. His anger surged up again but didn’t overflow, contained by the last unknown. “Your mother is in a medically induced coma right now,” Akemi continued. “It’s not difficult to reverse in principle, but the problem will be Moscato and—and the doctor.” 

“Isn’t the doctor your mother?” 

“It’s not that simple. I have no say in this. You’ll be risking your mother’s life if you go directly to them.” 

“Yaku,” Kai whispered, holding up his phone that was buzzing. “Come with me for a moment. Yes?” he answered the call as they stepped into the hallway. He listened to the caller, glanced at Morisuke, and responded, “Don’t worry. He’s with me. I’ll let you talk to him.” He passed his phone to Morisuke. “It’s Kuroo. He’s been trying to reach you for the past ten minutes. He’s worried sick.” 

A quick check on his phone showed him two missed calls from K.T. Rolling his eyes, he snatched Kai’s phone and barked, “What?” 

“Yaku?” said Kuroo. 

“Yes, it’s me, you idiot.” 

“Sorry... I interrupted something, didn’t I? I was just really worried. It’s almost midnight, and you’re not back yet. I was afraid Miya did something to you.” 

And Morisuke could feel his anger drain away along with his energy, leaving some sort of pudding-like thing to fill the void. He suddenly wanted to see Kuroo. “I’m fine. Something came up. It’s late. Go to sleep. I’ll give you an update tomorrow. Bye.” He hung up and returned the phone to Kai, aware that he was curt not because he was irritated at Kuroo but because he didn’t want to deal with the possible inquiries about his more-than-work relationship with a PSB agent. Why did he have to go and fall in love? 

“Do you want to talk to Miyano-san some more?” Kai asked. 

“No. I’m tired. You’re tired. It’s late. We can do this tomorrow. I want to check on Mika before I go, though.” 

“Yes. Let’s do that.”

  


* * *

  


Mika had fallen asleep by the time they got there, but she was “doing okay,” according to Daishou, who’d changed out of his soiled clothes and was about to turn in for the night. Hiroo was there as well, on the couch with a laptop and a coffee thermos, while Kuguri napped. He and Kai would visit again tomorrow, Morisuke told them and, after bidding everyone good night, hailed a cab.

As he stood in front of Kuroo’s apartment, he examined the key in his hand before he unlocked the door. The lights were off inside. _How things have changed,_ he thought as he bolted the door and cringed at the snap the way he had the first time he was in this apartment, when he’d turned the lock in the other direction, on his way out. He tiptoed to the bathroom, where he changed into his pajamas and brushed his teeth with the white toothbrush that occupied the same cup as the red one. Once mysteries, now histories. 

Sneaking into the bedroom, he froze when he heard Kuroo’s voice. “Yakkun?” 

“You’re still awake?” 

“Yeah... Couldn’t sleep.” 

Morisuke sighed as he slid under the covers. “Then why didn’t you say something earlier?” 

“So I can surprise you?” Kuroo said, snickering and latching onto Morisuke, who pretended to claw at him to find a comfortable arrangement of their limbs intertwined. 

“That wasn’t a surprise,” he grumbled into the crook of Kuroo’s neck. 

“I was keeping the bed warm for you.” 

“You mean you were too lazy to get up.” 

“To be honest,” Kuroo said quietly and gave Morisuke a squeeze, “I thought you weren’t going to come back tonight.” 

“What, you think I can’t handle Miya on my own? I can kick his elite ass if I wanted to.” 

“Well, no. I mean... Okay, so I did panic a bit when you didn’t answer my calls, but I thought you’d be busy with whatever came up. Or decide to go back to your place instead.” 

“My pajamas is at your place.” 

“Hmm...” Kuroo tugged on Morisuke’s pajamas and found a ticklish spot. “Alright, I’ve decided I’m going to take your pajamas hostage from now on.” 

“Fuck you!” Morisuke shouted, grappling with Kuroo and trying not to shriek from the tickle attack. 

“You can fuck me,” Kuroo purred. 

“I’m tired!” Morisuke kicked Kuroo and yanked the blanket over his head as he turned away with a harrumph. He tensed when Kuroo slipped an arm around him and kissed the back of his neck, but in the stillness that followed, he relaxed into the warmth and closed his eyes. They would talk about Miya and Mika in the morning.


	27. Catch

Morisuke woke up mulling over what Miya and Akemi had said. Both could be lying, or one could be lying and the other telling the truth—but could both be telling the truth? Toward the end of his conversation with Miya, he’d been almost convinced that Miya, while not strictly on his side, was nonetheless an ally of sorts. At least he doubted that Miya wanted his mother dead, never mind why. Akemi, on the other hand, had implied the opposite, that “Moscato” didn’t want his mother alive. Was his mother really in a medically induced coma? What would happen to her if he confronted Miya about this? Who could he trust? 

Next to him, Kuroo stirred, pillow flopping open as he stretched. Blinking, he flashed a sleepy smile and nuzzled up to Morisuke like a giant cat. “You’re still here,” he murmured. 

“Why wouldn’t I be?” 

“Christmas is a couple’s holiday, but I feel like you spent it with everyone but me...” 

“We don’t get holidays, so quit whining,” Morisuke retorted as he elbowed Kuroo, who locked his long limbs around Morisuke and whined in response. Bristling at the rising level of stupidity that raised the temperature under the covers, Morisuke tried to shove Kuroo back to his side of the bed. He hissed when Kuroo stole the blanket and exposed him to the cold, but just as he was about to give up fighting for the blanket, he found himself enveloped in it again, back at where he started, trapped in the other’s arms and warmth. He glared at Kuroo, whose smug look was ruined by the peacock-tail bed hair. 

“So what happened yesterday?” Kuroo asked, propping himself up on one elbow and linking his other hand with Morisuke’s. “How did you end up with Kai?” 

“Why? Are you jealous?” 

“I wouldn’t use the word ‘jealous,’” Kuroo said slowly. “I figured it had to do with the case... Is it super classified?” 

Morisuke averted his gaze and sighed. The boundary between secrecy and transparency had vanished, creating a zone where right and wrong bled into one another. The mess last night had stemmed from what he’d shared with Kuroo, but he couldn’t say if he regretted it or not. Maybe, if Mika had died. Maybe, if Kuroo had been someone else. Maybe. 

“We caught Miyano Akemi,” he decided to say. Kuroo would hear about Mika through the grapevine eventually, but until then, the fewer people who knew, the better. 

“Wait.” Kuroo’s eyes widened. “Miyano Akemi? As in Miyano Shiho’s sister? You caught her? How?” 

“Because of Daishou,” Morisuke replied after a pause. “But his cover is blown as a result, so I have to take him off the case.” 

Kai had expressed reservations at first, not with disapproval but with concern because of how long it would take them to plant another undercover agent in the organization despite the lack of a safe alternative to pulling Daishou out. After their conversation with Miyano Akemi, however, he’d changed his mind, given what she’d wanted to do and how much she’d seemed to know. Still, Morisuke couldn’t help but think of Miya’s offer. Perhaps it was only fair that he should do this—for Daishou and Mika, for Kuroo, for his mother. 

“At least now I won’t have to worry about you two getting in each other’s way,” he added. 

“Was Miyano Shiho the one who did this?” Kuroo asked as he sat up, taking the blanket with him. “I thought she—what is she planning? What about Bokuto?” 

“I don’t know,” Morisuke said and made a mental note to find out about Bokuto. “All I know is that the Miyano sisters are trying to free themselves from the organization, whatever that means.” 

Kuroo frowned. “Didn’t they choose to join the organization in the first place?” 

“I don’t know,” Morisuke repeated, frustrated. He yanked on the blanket and Kuroo’s underpants. “I’m cold. Get back in here.”

  


* * *

  


Late in arriving at his office (no thanks to Kuroo keeping him warm), Morisuke left Kuroo’s compromised phone with the cybersecurity division of the PSB and raced up the stairs. He greeted Kai as he entered the office. 

“Yaku,” Kai said after he returned the greeting. “Do you know about Itakura Suguru?” 

Morisuke paused in the middle of removing his jacket. “What about him?” he asked and tossed his jacket aside. 

“He was your mother’s colleague, wasn’t he? Remember ‘a song for ASACA’? Shibayama received an anonymous tip about the memory stick. I asked the cybersecurity team to trace the email, and they traced it to Itakura. It looks like he was the one who sent it.” 

“What?” Morisuke stared at Kai. “Say that again?” 

“We have evidence suggesting that Itakura told us about the memory stick.” 

“He knew. Shit. What evidence do you have?” 

“The cybersecurity team traced the email to an internet cafe called Net Maru. I asked Fukunaga to check with the cafe. They require their customers to produce identification, and someone named Itakura Suguru rented the computer that’d sent the email. I received the security footage from the cafe this morning. You can see for yourself.” 

Kai turned his monitor toward Morisuke, who wheeled his chair to Kai’s desk. Even at the low image resolution of the security footage, Morisuke could match Itakura’s face to the face of the middle-aged man with thinning hair and a small mustache inside the cafe. 

“I was wondering if he knew about the memory stick,” said Morisuke. “This has to be why he was killed. It doesn’t make sense otherwise. Have you told Division Two?” 

“Division Two? Of the TMPD?” Kai shook his head, brows furrowed. “Even if we do alert the TMPD, shouldn’t it be Division One?” 

“Yes, but...” Morisuke hesitated. How should he explain Oikawa’s case? 

Someone rapped on their door. Numai held up two memory sticks in the doorway. “I have what you want, both of you. Do you want to look at them now?” 

Morisuke looked at Kai in bewilderment. “You asked him for something too?” 

Kai smiled. “I was about to ask you the same thing.” 

“Dude,” said Numai. “You drag my whole team into your case, and you didn’t tell each other about this? You need to communicate more.” 

“Shut up,” Morisuke muttered while Kai invited Numai into the office. 

They crowded around Kai’s computer, where Numai inserted the memory stick labeled _K_. 

“This is one weird case you’re working on,” Numai remarked as he opened a series of traffic images and videos. He pointed at a white Toyota. “Here’s the car that Shibayama rented. There was indeed one car consistently behind his, all the way from Saitama to Gunma.” He tapped on several images where the same black Subaru was circled in red. “That’s also a rental car. From the same place that Shibayama got his, in fact. But here’s where it gets weird. The person who rented that car was a Fujimine Yukiko. Recognize that name?” 

Morisuke and Kai exchanged a glance. By now, Morisuke had gathered that Kai had asked Numai to identify the person who’d tailed Shibayama and killed Numabuchi in Gunma. He frowned and said, “That name sounds vaguely familiar.” 

“I’m afraid I don’t recognize it,” said Kai. 

“Not fans of old period dramas, I see,” said Numai. “I’m not either. It would’ve taken me twice as long to figure out who she was if not for old man Nekomata. Fujimine Yukiko, famous for playing Otome in this Sakamoto Ryoma drama more than thirty years ago. She would later marry Kudo Yusaku and become Kudo Yukiko. But she died twenty-seven years ago.” 

“Kudo,” Morisuke exclaimed. “I remember now. That’s how I know that name.” 

Kai inhaled a sharp breath of realization. “I had no idea her maiden name was Fujimine.” 

“But she’s dead,” said Morisuke. 

“Exactly,” said Numai. “So you’d think it was just someone who happened to have the same name. But then.” He played a video that showed a young woman interacting with the receptionist at the rental car office. “That’s the one and only Fujimine Yukiko. Not only is she alive when she should be dead, but she also looks twenty when she should be fifty. Either you’ve dug up a doppelganger, or someone is trolling us with some crazy make-up.” 

“No... There’s no way that’s really her,” Morisuke murmured, troubled by what’d happened to Bokuto and what the organization’s goal was. Vermouth had said that they were trying to raise the dead, but they couldn’t have done it already, could they? “Vermouth,” he said. 

“And no one at the rental car office recognized her?” Kai was asking. 

“Would _you_ have recognized her?” Numai asked in return. “I couldn’t believe it at first either, but it’s been thirty years. Hiroo also mentioned that charisma is something that some people know how to turn on and off. He read in a book that Marilyn Monroe knew how to ride the New York subway without being recognized. And there was the case—” 

“It’s Vermouth,” Morisuke interrupted. “That’s my guess anyway.” 

“Vermouth? Isn’t that a type of wine?” Numai asked. 

“Yes, but it’s also the code name for someone who knows disguise. So your ‘troll’ with crazy make-up skills. I don’t know how good she is, though. Daishou might know.” 

“But we have no way of proving it right now,” Kai noted, indicating the surveillance images and videos. 

“Nope,” Numai said and swapped the first memory stick for the second one labeled _Y_. “Yours is less weird,” he told Morisuke and pulled up an image of a familiar black Porsche. In the front passenger seat sat Miyano Akemi. “The license plate is fake, so that’s plenty of excuse to open an investigation. I just haven’t had time to track down the driver for you.” 

“That’s okay,” Morisuke replied and, upon realization, loosened his grip on the edge of his chair. “I just needed to confirm who was in the passenger seat. But we should track down the driver. Don’t do anything when you find out who he is. I don’t want to alert him to our investigation. I’m sick of these people always being a step ahead of us.” 

“Surveillance is what we’re good at,” Numai remarked. “Normally I’d complain about doing your legwork, but nobody gets away with hurting Mika-chan. I’m gonna make every single one of them pay.”

  


* * *

  


After lunch, Morisuke and Kai took a cab to Haido Hospital. It’d been awkward explaining Bokuto’s situation to Kai over bento in their office. It was unavoidable after Kai had seen the photo of Miyano Akemi in the black Porsche. He’d asked about the circumstances, and since Morisuke needed help “accommodating” Miyano Shiho’s demand to meet Bokuto, he’d decided to be frank with Kai. To his credit, Kai had accepted the bizarre situation without too much questioning and agreed to press Miyano Akemi on this. 

Both froze at the sight of police cordoning off the ward where Miyano Akemi was. 

“What happened?” Morisuke asked after they found Himekawa. 

“Um...” Himekawa fixed his eyes on Kai with a confused and almost fearful expression. 

“You are from the PSB,” said a deep, commanding, stoic voice that—Morisuke discovered when he turned around—belonged to Ushijima Wakatoshi. 

“And you’re from TMPD Division One,” Morisuke said with a growing sense of foreboding. “Homicide.” 

“That is correct. The victim is Miyano Akemi, who was a witness and a suspect under the name Hirota Masami in my previous case. It is my understanding that the PSB had taken her into custody.” 

“And she’s dead now?” Morisuke asked, unable to keep his voice steady. He was always a step behind. Why was he always a step behind? 

“She is,” said Ushijima. “We cannot confirm the time or cause of death until the autopsy, but according to Himekawa, the last person to see her alive this morning was Kai Nobuyuki from the PSB. Is that you?” He turned to Kai. “I made a call to the PSB earlier but was informed that you had stepped out. I was not expecting you to come here directly.” 

Kai seemed baffled. “I didn’t see her this morning. I saw her last night, and it was together with Yaku. What time are you talking about, Himekawa?” 

“Ten... a.m. t-this morning,” Himekawa stammered. 

“That’s not possible,” Morisuke said. “I saw Kai in the PSB headquarters a little before ten. We’ve been in our office since then. Until now. There are others who can vouch for this.” 

Himekawa, thoroughly at a loss, looked like he’d messed up royally, flung into the spotlight of the Colosseum where he was forced to reconcile two inconsistent truths or die trying. 

Ushijima said, “There are no cameras in the hospital room, but there are cameras in the lobby. Preliminary findings corroborate Himekawa’s statement. I do not trust the PSB in matters of this nature. Your agency is known for its underhanded tactics. You cannot be his alibi, especially not if you are on the same case.” 

“What?” Morisuke growled. 

“Yaku.” Kai placed a hand on Morisuke’s shoulder. “Let’s cooperate with the TMPD. They’re the only ones who can tell us what happened to Miyano Akemi. Inspector, I know you want to speak to me, but can I ask Himekawa a couple of questions first?” Ushijima consented, and Kai said, “Can you describe what happened, Himekawa? What did I say? Did you notice anything different about me?” 

_Vermouth_ , Morisuke thought with a chill. Was she actually capable of impersonating Kai? 

“You said... you wanted to talk to Miyano-san,” Himekawa began after some wavering, clearly conflicted. “And you didn’t want anyone to interrupt... You were in the room for about ten minutes, and you left after that. I didn’t think there was anything different... except... maybe... you were wearing cologne...?” 

“You never wear cologne,” Morisuke pointed out. 

“No, I don’t,” said Kai. 

“Shit,” Morisuke uttered and spun on his heels. “I’m going to go check on Mika.”


	28. Comprehend

Hiroo cracked open the door after Morisuke knocked. He stared and said, “Oh, it’s Yakkun.” 

Morisuke bristled. Suddenly the nickname seemed to be everywhere. First Kuroo, then Oikawa, now Hiroo. Who was next? Miya? “Who said you could call me that?” he snapped. 

“It’s the real one, alright,” Hiroo said and stepped away from the door for Morisuke to enter. “Sorry about that. It was either call you a stupid name or pull on your nose. It just so happens that I don’t want my own nose broken.” 

If he’d said that under different circumstances, Morisuke might’ve punched his nose anyway, but as it was, Morisuke understood his intentions. “Something happened,” he said, closing the door behind him while Hiroo returned to the game of shogi he was playing with Kuguri. 

“Kai visited earlier,” Daishou stated without looking up from the apple that he was peeling for Mika, who gave Morisuke a weak but genial smile. 

“What time?” Morisuke asked, relieved to see Mika in good spirits but perturbed by Daishou’s reply. 

“Half past ten, I think?” 

“That couldn’t have been him.” 

“I suspected as much.” Daishou handed the plate of apple slices to Mika before turning to Morisuke. “I thought it was weird that he came by himself. I would’ve expected you to do that, but not him. So I asked him, ‘Where’s Yakkun?’ See, your knee-jerk reaction to that name is what I expect because I never call you that. Don’t you think the real Kai Nobuyuki would’ve said something like, ‘Since when do you call him that?’ But the one who was here said, ‘Yaku? He has some other things to attend to.’ Not that he could’ve done anything with those two here, but I pressed the nurse call button anyway. ‘By accident.’ He left immediately after.” 

“You let him leave?” 

“What else do you want me to do? Tackle him and yank off his mask? I can’t risk him pulling a gun on us with Mika-chan here. Besides, I didn’t know for sure that it wasn’t Kai. I can’t assault another PSB agent for no good reason.” 

“What if he didn’t leave?” 

“I would’ve found a way to make him leave,” Daishou said in a quiet and measured tone, exuding a level of confidence that Morisuke knew wasn’t misplaced but did little to allay his fears. 

“Suguru,” said Mika. “You look scary.” 

Transforming into an idiot in love, Daishou moved closer to Mika and patted her hand with a gentle smile, reassuring her that everything would be fine. How much did Mika know, Morisuke wondered. 

“The problem now,” said Hiroo, “is moving Yamaka-san to a new location as soon as possible.” 

Daishou spoke before Morisuke could respond. “We were talking about this before you got here. We think it’s better if Numai takes over. It’s not that we don’t trust you—” 

“I get it,” Morisuke said, slumping against the wall. “They know everyone who’s involved by now, so it’s best to leave some things to the ones unrelated to the case. I have no objections.” He wouldn’t ask about it either to prevent leaks, even though he hated the unpredictable, hated the inability to check on people to make sure that they were safe. (He hoped Shibayama was fine.) 

“Who do you think impersonated Kai?” he asked. “Did you hear what happened to Miyano Akemi?” 

“No, and I don’t care,” Daishou said but then paused. His expression darkened. “They got her first, didn’t they? Shit. I shouldn’t be surprised. It’s their standard procedure.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“They eliminate anyone who’s betrayed the organization.” Daishou narrowed his eyes. “That means it’s likely they’re after me this time—oh, don’t look so worried, Mika-chan, everything will be okay.” Mika seemed unconvinced, but he turned to Morisuke. “The only person I know who’s capable of disguise is Vermouth, but I’ve never witnessed it before, so I don’t know how good she actually is.” 

“What do you know about her?” 

“Practically nothing. She’s extremely secretive, but allegedly she’s very close to ‘that person.’” 

“Kudo,” Morisuke muttered as he noticed a peculiar pattern. “Do you know anything about the Kudo family?” 

“Which one? Kudo Shinichi?” 

“Yeah, him.” 

“Just the usual celebrity gossip. What made you think of him?” 

“It’s just that... the Kudo family keeps popping up. Itakura, Altana, and now Vermouth. I thought it might be a coincidence, but why Kudo Yukiko?” Catching sight of four puzzled expressions, he shook his head and said, “Never mind. I’m just glad that you’re alright. I should go check on Kai before the TMPD decides to arrest him for something he hasn’t done. Take care.”

  


* * *

  


They had returned to headquarters, Yamamoto (leading the forensics team) told him when he asked about Kai. _Sorry, Yaku-san, I’m not allowed to tell you anything about the forensics findings._

Cursing Ushijima on his way to the TMPD headquarters, Morisuke found himself sympathizing with Iwaizumi, sharing the same contempt for Division One. He wondered if Ushijima was also in charge of Oikawa’s case. The good news, he supposed, was that the medical examiner assigned to Miyano Akemi’s autopsy was Akaashi. Even if Ushijima refused to divulge information about Miyano Akemi’s death, Morisuke was two hundred percent certain that he could wring it from Akaashi. 

Could it be another apoptosis heart attack? If so, would Ushijima close the case with “natural death” again or search for the undetectable poison? How cruel did one have to be to use APTX on the sister of the person who developed the poison in the first place? What did it take to use it on her lover? 

The night where he fought with Kuroo in front of the fountain rushed back to him. Love blinds. He knew. He knew he shouldn’t have fallen in love. Especially not with another agent. Seduction was perhaps the most effective way of extracting information from a target. To exploit a moment of weakness. On a whim. An innocent request. 

How did Miyano Akemi discover that her boyfriend was an FBI agent? Did they truly love each other or was it a symbiotic relationship? What would he do if Kuroo Tetsurou turned out to have been lying all along? What attracted a scientist, an academic to the organization? Did his mother know? More importantly, did she understand? 

Did Kuroo understand? 

Morisuke shook his head. He might never learn the answers to some of those questions. They might not matter. Focusing on the present and the actionable mattered. Suspecting Kuroo now was like suspecting Himekawa of framing Kai for murder—baseless and absurd. 

Ushijima was still questioning Kai, an officer informed him. Morisuke curled his lip and contemplated barging in on the interrogation. It would help no one, he decided, even though the interrogation was a total waste of time. After pacing the lobby for a few seconds, he took off for Division Two.

  


* * *

  


Of all the people he’d expected to bump into in Division Two, Miya Atsumu was not one of them. His surprise was mirrored, but Miya recovered first and smiled—not out of friendliness but amusement laced with a trace of triumph directed at someone else. 

“Thank you for making the trip up from Hyogo—” Iwaizumi was saying before he spotted Morisuke. “You. You’re from the PSB. What’re you doing here?” 

It was too late to say that he could locate his “very important witness” for him. In hindsight, it made sense that Iwaizumi managed to track down Miya Atsumu. The Division Two inspector had authority to investigate the Altana patients, and what Morisuke could unearth via the internet, the inspector could too. Did Miya come back to Tokyo for this? 

“I had some business in Division One,” said Morisuke. “I figured I might as well stop by to chat with you. I have some information that might be useful to you.” 

“I see,” said Iwaizumi with a frown. He looked slightly more well-rested than he did last time, the dark circles under his eyes less prominent but not gone. “Unfortunately it’s not a good time right now. Can you come back a little later?” 

“I don’t see why we can’t meet together,” Miya interrupted. “I’m involved in both of your cases. I don’t want to say the same thing twice. Get it?” 

His words stumped Iwaizumi. In the moment Iwaizumi took to reorganize his thoughts, Miya spotted the kitchenette and strode in there to pour himself a cup of tea. 

“Why do I feel like I’m dealing with another Oikawa?” Iwaizumi grumbled. He glanced at Morisuke. “Is it true, what he said?” 

“He’s your very important witness,” said Morisuke. “He’s also my very important witness. Let’s help each other.” 

It was in part a lie. To Morisuke, Miya Atsumu was not so much a witness as he was a suspect, but the opportunity to sit in on their meeting was too good to pass up. He might even uncover the truth (or something close to it) behind Itakura’s death, the seemingly unrelated yet intricately connected case. 

They gathered in the meeting room that Iwaizumi had used last time. After a few seconds of heavy silence, Iwaizumi tore his gaze from Morisuke and sighed. He started with the routine questions, establishing Miya’s whereabouts when Oikawa’s August meeting with the Harusame vice president was supposed to take place. Miya confirmed Oikawa’s claims: the VP, who had fallen ill, sent him; they talked about the health bill. 

“Here’s what I don’t understand,” said Iwaizumi. “Why would the VP send you? You don’t work for Harusame. You work for Inarizaki. Why did you tell Oikawa you worked for a ‘brewing’ company?” 

“The brewing company was a joke,” said Miya, to Iwaizumi’s aggravation. “As for Harusame... Kudo Yusaku was an early investor and introduced the VP to Inarizaki to foster business relations. But is this what you’re really interested in?” 

“I get to decide that,” Iwaizumi said sternly as he jotted something down in his notebook. “I haven’t come across any business transactions between Harusame and Inarizaki in the Harusame financial statements. You’d better hope there’s no sufficient cause to audit Inarizaki because I’ll gladly do it.” 

“You haven’t come across anything because there is nothing. It’s been pure talk between Harusame and Inarizaki. Much like the dealings between Harusame and Oikawa Tooru. Does it matter who met with him and what they discussed? He never received any cash. Haven’t you concluded that yet?” 

“Of course I have. Clearing Oikawa of wrongdoing is easy in this case—” 

“The problem is Itakura’s murder,” Miya finished for Iwaizumi, who glowered at him. He smiled and turned to Morisuke. “Our prickly PSB agent has been awfully quiet. Aren’t you interested in this?” 

Morisuke struck the bottom of the table with his fist to get rid of the urge to sock Miya, and crossed his arms to conceal the cause of that action. “I’m listening,” he said through gritted teeth. 

“What did you want to talk about anyway?” Iwaizumi asked as if he’d just remembered Morisuke. 

Pressing his lips together, Morisuke considered his words. Miya had declared the brewing company a joke, which he’d interpreted as a warning not to mention the organization. It suited him fine. He had no ways or means to protect Iwaizumi from hitmen dressed as deceased celebrities. 

“I wanted to talk about Itakura, actually,” he said. “He tipped us off about a memory stick that was worth ten million yen. We caught the courier, but he didn’t know anything.” 

“Ten million yen?” Iwaizumi exclaimed. “What was on it?” 

“I don’t know.” It wasn’t exactly a lie; he knew the name of the file but not what the file itself was. Sugawara’s speculation remained a speculation. He looked at Miya. “Do you know?” 

“The game that Itakura developed, maybe?” Miya suggested, drawing two stunned reactions. 

“How do _you_ know?” Iwaizumi demanded. 

“I _don’t_ know,” said Miya. “I guessed.” 

Iwaizumi made a disgruntled sound and smacked his pen on the table while Morisuke weighed the possibility that Miya did, in fact, know. 

Morisuke said, “It doesn’t change Oikawa’s predicament if that’s the case. Itakura was still killed for the game he developed.” 

“And why is that important?” Miya asked. “The only way to solve this problem is to identify the real killer. Have you actually seen the security footage of the hotel where Itakura was killed?” 

“Division One refuses to share that information,” said Iwaizumi. 

Miya shrugged. “Not my problem.” 

“It’s not Ushijima, is it?” Morisuke asked Iwaizumi. 

“Oh god,” Iwaizumi exclaimed. “Oikawa would’ve been convicted by now if it was Ushiwaka handling this case. No. It’s Megure. Or Megure parroting that detective Kudo Shinichi. Wait a minute. Are you saying there’s something wrong with Kudo’s deductions?” 

“I didn’t say anything,” Miya said. “I only asked the questions you should’ve asked if you knew how to use your heads.” 

_You piece of shit,_ said Iwaizumi’s expression, _you’re even worse than Oikawa._ Morisuke concurred. 

“That’s all I can do for you,” Miya continued without acknowledging the stink eyes. “Tell Oikawa that it’s on him to increase the federal funding for basic research or this will never be over.” 

Both Iwaizumi and Morisuke gaped at him. “What?” 

“I help him, he helps me. That’s always been the deal.” 

“But you...” Iwaizumi furrowed his brows and bit back what he wanted to say. He scribbled down more notes, paused, and asked Morisuke, “Do you have anything else?” 

“No,” Morisuke replied. Not with Iwaizumi. 

They exchanged pleasantries and concluded the meeting. Iwaizumi disappeared to his cubicle while Morisuke and Miya headed to the elevators. 

“Federal funding for basic research?” Morisuke asked in a low voice. “Where did that come from?” 

“You could ask your mother,” Miya said as he stepped into an elevator. “She turned down a hundred million from the Landau Foundation, didn’t she? Why do you think she did that?” 

Morisuke slammed his arm against the closing elevator door and stepped in as well. “You tell me,” he snarled. 

“She could afford to turn down that money without affecting her research, but not everyone can do that. You can ask that agent of yours. Kuroo Tetsurou, right?” 

Morisuke balled his fists, unable to stop himself from shaking with anger. “Don’t—” he choked back the rest of his sentence because it wouldn’t accomplish anything except expose his weakness. Love binds. Invisible threads that cut through skin. 

The elevator arrived on the first floor, but Morisuke stayed behind while Miya stepped off. His mind emptied, falling as still as the elevator without its next command.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Omake #Inarizaki
> 
> Kita: I received a visit from the Tokyo Metropolitan Police Department this morning.  
> Suna: ruh-roh  
> Kita: Turn yourself in, Atsumu.  
> Atsumu: (cold sweat) 'Samu--  
> Osamu: No.  
> 


	29. Candor

He was vaguely aware of what happened next. Miya had left. Kai had returned to the PSB headquarters. There was no concrete evidence against him, Kai explained, but none to clear him either. No, Ushijima didn’t dismiss the possibility of an impersonator; it would hinge on the results of the forensics analysis and the autopsy. Hearing that, he sent a message to Akaashi. 

He visited his mother afterwards and regretted that he hadn’t asked Miya about the medically induced coma. He hated how little progress he’d made in the last few weeks, with nothing to report except a dead suspect, a wounded civilian, and multiple exposed agents. He hated how easily distracted he’d become. 

Kuroo wasn’t back yet when he arrived at the other’s apartment. Mentally drained, he collapsed on the unmade bed and buried his face deep in the familiar scent of comfort and love. It stirred memories so fresh yet so abstract, of two as one wrapped in warmth that he recalled and desired but could no longer feel. 

Something shifted the weight on top of him, rousing him, and he blinked at the tall figure tucking the blanket around his shoulders. In the dim light, he recognized the hair first. “Kuroo?” 

“Oh, sorry,” Kuroo whispered. “Didn’t mean to wake you up.” A pause. “Are you hungry?” 

His simple words and affection formed an oasis that Morisuke couldn’t distinguish from a mirage. He fumbled for Kuroo’s hands and pulled the other towards him, seeking reality. Real was Kuroo’s large, heavy frame solid in his arms, flush with his body. Real was Kuroo’s unmistakable, irresistible scent of sugar and spice filling his every inhalation. He kissed Kuroo’s jaw and neck, nipping at the skin, feeling the pulse, drawing out a sigh. 

Kuroo pushed away slightly and rested their foreheads together, his breath uneven. “What brought this about?” 

“Don’t you want this?” Morisuke asked, raking his fingers through the stubborn mop of hair. 

“I do,” Kuroo murmured against Morisuke’s lips before he sealed them with a lingering kiss, lifting Morisuke in a wave. “I want—” he added between shorter kisses, “ _whatever_ you want.” 

Morisuke deepened the kiss, tasting the inside of Kuroo’s mouth. He wanted to drink in all the love that Kuroo was showering upon him. He wanted to take the devotion at face value and give back more. He wanted to say he also wanted what Kuroo wanted, but he didn’t know if he could. 

“What do you want,” he asked after he broke their kiss, heart racing, “that I don’t want?” 

As if he’d just received a random trick question, Kuroo chuckled, a little puzzled and a little amused. He stroked Morisuke’s cheek. “What doesn’t my Yakkun want?” 

Hot tears pricked Morisuke’s eyes as he searched Kuroo’s face obscured by the shadows. _I don’t want you to be one of them. I don’t want us to stand on opposite sides. I don’t want to say goodbye._ “Why are you like this?” he raised his voice and shoved Kuroo’s shoulder. “Why can’t you just tell me what you want? Everything you want? Good, bad, _whatever_?” 

Seconds passed. Kuroo, too stunned to react at first, propped himself up and wiped the tears from the corners of Morisuke’s eyes. “Yaku, what’s going on? What happened today?” 

Angry at himself for showing such vulnerability, angry at Kuroo for staying where he was (who he was), Morisuke pushed and kicked until Kuroo let go of him, thoroughly confused. He glared at Kuroo sitting next to him, pissed at how much he missed the warmth and security that a part of him was suddenly afraid of trusting. He wanted it so badly, held on to it too tightly, to the point where he didn’t know if he could accept it completely. He refused to lose, but what did that even mean here? 

“Miya,” he said. It’d started there, hadn’t it—the first time he kissed Kuroo? Would it end here too? “He told me my mom turned down money from the organization. He also said not everyone could do that. He said you’d know. Why? Have they given you money? Do you need it? Do you _want_ it?” 

Slowly, Kuroo shook his head. “I... What? I don’t—I’ve never... What money? Research money?” 

“Research money. Federal funding. He wants to increase federal funding for basic research. He said my mom would know why, but he fucking knows she’s in no condition to tell me.” 

“Wait, what? He wants to increase federal funding for basic research? Isn’t he with the organization?” 

“Yes. No. I don’t know. He’s... Argh!” Morisuke pressed his palms against his eyes out of frustration. Too many things had happened in the last twenty-four hours, forty-eight hours, seventy-two hours, that he’d had no capacity to process everything. Miya’s request, his motive, his role... Morisuke looked at Kuroo. “What did you just say? Is it weird that he wants to increase funding if he’s with the organization?” 

“Hmm...” Kuroo crossed his arms and tilted his head as he thought about it. “I’m not sure either. It just seems a bit—what’s the word—inconsistent? Wakasa gives me the sense that they want to overhaul the entire academic system, but if they increase the federal funding, it might end up backfiring on them.” 

“What? Why?” 

“You need money to do research. If the organization has money but the government doesn’t, you’d have to turn to them or give up on your work. Federal funding comes with no strings attached, but I imagine that’s not the case with the organization. They’re not in the business of charity. There’s something they want to accomplish, and they need people to do it. Money is one of the best ways to attract people.” 

“But if the government is able to provide funding...” 

“Why would you work for the organization then?” 

Morisuke sat up abruptly. “So that’s why Miya said this will never be over unless we increase the federal funding,” he muttered to himself. Was Miya trying to dismantle the organization from the bottom up? Was that why he said what he wanted was different from what the organization wanted? Did this have to do with his twin brother? What was he trying to do with Morisuke’s mother then? His mother who turned down the money _with_ strings attached... “What about you?” Morisuke asked Kuroo. “What is the organization to you? What do you want that they can give you?” _Do you want to change the academia that you left? The place that you said Dante wrote about?_

“Oh,” Kuroo said, his eyes fixed on Morisuke, looking crestfallen. “No, there’s nothing I want that they can give me.” His gaze grew distant, and he continued in a quiet voice, “Yaku, if I’d wanted to join the organization, I would’ve done it two years ago. I left academia for a lot of reasons. None of it was about money. What Wakasa talks about doesn’t interest me. It’s why it’s been so hard to get her to trust me. I don’t actually want to change academia. I can’t even get myself to pretend I want that.” 

He took Morisuke’s hands in his. “I want to find the antidote for Bokuto. I want to close this case so I know Bokuto is safe, your mother is safe, and you can stop hurting. I want to go to the beach with you. Watch the sunset with you. Wake up next to you. Make you smile.” He squeezed Morisuke’s hands. “I don’t know how to prove this, Yaku, but I just want to be with you. Always and forever.” 

Unable to contain his tears, Morisuke leaned his head on Kuroo’s chest and cried. The irony, it dawned on Morisuke, was that to prove his words, he’d agree to pull out of the case, where he couldn’t be the spy anymore, but it was a heartless proof and an end to everything. He couldn’t do it, Morisuke realized. He couldn’t ask Kuroo to pull out the way he had in the past, and he couldn’t end their relationship the way he had with Nishinoya, when reasons had been less sound than they were now. 

He’d lost. Lost to Kuroo the game that had no rules, in a world that had no truths. He’d lost.


	30. Convergence

Love, like loyalty, was a claim that one could never prove. Not with oaths, not with gifts, not with anything less than life itself. It was the incompleteness theorem of the illogical, his mother had said some time after his last breakup. One just knew. Or rather, one just had to assume.

So Morisuke assumed—accepted without proof—that he could trust the transient feeling of completeness as he lay awake in Kuroo’s arms in the morning sun, where their evening conversation seemed like a distant dream. They’d talked about academia, about the ivory tower that promised to protect the pursuit of scientific truth only to fall short because of money, prestige, politics, and the pressure to publish or perish. They’d talked about the scientific truths that emerged from consensus rather than the objective world, about the research trends set by a single success or failure.

_Academia is simple_ , his mother had told him when he was a third-year in high school and thinking about the future, _but it isn’t innocent. You never know when the question you’ve always wanted to answer will become a fringe topic overnight, ignored by the rest of the community. The AI winter is older than you are, you know?_ she’d added, referring to the period when “artificial intelligence” had become a forbidden phrase among researchers because of what it couldn’t deliver. _I stayed because it was the only way I could do what I wanted to do, even if I have to call it “machine learning” or “knowledge-based system.” I have to dress them up a bit, but the questions don’t change._

_It’s the people_ , Kuroo had said in response to Morisuke’s question about why he’d left. _What I do is less important than who I do it with._ _I’d rather be stuck in a lab with Akaashi than save the world with Wakasa._ _That’s all there is to it._

( _But_ _of course_ _I love exploring Yakkun the most_ , he’d added completely unnecessarily.)

At that memory, Morisuke kicked Kuroo. “Wake up, lazy ass,” he said, ignoring Kuroo’s mumbling protests as he disentangled himself from the other’s limbs. “We have a long day ahead.”

Akaashi had called last night to update Morisuke on Miyano Akemi’s autopsy. _It’s cyanide_ , he’d said, much to Morisuke’s surprise. _It_ _was_ _most likely_ _the painkiller._ _Unfortunately we only found the victim’s fingerprints on the blister pack,_ _so we_ _don’t have_ _any_ _evidence to clear Kai-san_ _yet_ _._ _We_ _have no evidence to_ _clear the nurse in charge of the victim eithe_ _r_ _._ _We_ _’re trying_ _to identify the handprint_ _s_ _on the doorknob, but_ _that_ _is a messy analysis._

Morisuke hadn’t known what to think about the update, but Kuroo had interrupted them, saying that Miyano Shiho had told him to bring Bokuto to Beika General Hospital for a physical exam.

It was checkmate on her part. If she’d kidnapped Bokuto and taken him to her secret lab, they’d have grounds to storm her base and arrest her, but as it was, there was little they could do except watch helplessly while she collected the data that she wanted. Morisuke had objected at first, especially since she’d already exposed Daishou, but Akaashi had argued that she was, after all, the creator of the drug that shrunk Bokuto. They might as well let her do most of the work towards an antidote.

So at 11 a.m., Morisuke ordered coffee at the Starbucks in the hospital lobby and found a seat facing the hustle and bustle. As it was impossible to watch every entry and exit of the hospital given the interconnected wards and the network of underground tunnels linking Beika General Hospital to Beika University, Morisuke and Kai had decided to send Fukunaga in as someone who needed to see a doctor and could thus stay close to Kuroo and Bokuto.

“I’m here,” Morisuke told Kai on the phone, one earbud in his ear.

“I’m parked outside,” Kai replied.

Taking in a deep breath, Morisuke glanced at the moving blue dot on his phone. Kuroo and Bokuto, who was wearing a PSB watch that served as a tracking device, were two bus stops away; Akaashi, cautious as always but unable to request leave because of Miyano Akemi’s case, had dropped Bokuto off at the bus stop near Kuroo’s apartment earlier.

Ten minutes later, Kuroo and Bokuto entered the hospital lobby, the not-nine-year-old talking animatedly about something. A few meters behind them was Fukunaga wearing a mask. Morisuke clamped his feet on the ground when he discovered he was fidgeting and took a large gulp of his coffee. He wanted to run after them and keep them in his sight, but at this point, he had to work on the assumption that everyone in the organization knew who he was. Even the employees at Starbucks were starting to recognize him as a result of his daily visits to his mother.

Fukunaga sent a text message at 11:24. _They’re with the doctor. On standby._

Irritated that he was bouncing his feet again, Morisuke downed his coffee and headed to his mother’s hospital room. The doctor that Bokuto was supposed to see wasn’t Miyano Elena, which made sense in hindsight as she worked in the ICU, but it took every ounce of professionalism for Morisuke to stop himself from stomping into her office and demanding his mother’s recovery as well as a list of all the doctors associated with the organization. Instead, he fired off an email to Miya, saying that they never finished their conversation so could they do that asap?

Did Miya know about Miyano Akemi’s death? Did he care? Did Miyano Elena and Miyano Shiho know? Did _they_ care? Kuroo had been taken aback by the news because nothing in Miyano Shiho’s behavior had suggested that her sister had been murdered. She was aloof as usual, working as usual—although she’d been absent during the day more often than not.

Morisuke returned to the lobby and bought a sandwich at Starbucks, trying to calm down and think through the case, but he hated that he kept staring at the stationary blue dot on his phone and wondering if they’d kidnapped Bokuto _and_ Kuroo and left the watch behind. He hated that he failed at keeping his feet still and his heartbeat normal, that he was so incredibly useless.

11:45 passed.

12:00 passed.

12:15 passed.

12:30 passed.

He was ready to flip the table and charge into the ward with a bazooka when Fukunaga sent another message at 12:42. _They’re out._ _All is well._

Morisuke breathed a sigh of relief and jumped to his feet. It didn’t matter if the whole world saw him smiling at Kuroo as if they were meeting again at the airport arrival hall; he’d throw his arms around Kuroo if it weren’t for Bokuto drooping like a wilted flower next to them.

“I don’t like needles,” Bokuto said sadly while Kuroo ducked into the convenience store across from Starbucks and bought a bag of lollipops to cheer up the not-nine-year-old.

They took a small sample of Bokuto’s blood as well as his saliva, Kuroo explained on the way to Kai’s car. They also put him through an MRI scan, which was why it took so long. As far as he could tell, they didn’t do anything out of the ordinary. Maybe Miyano Shiho really was only interested in Bokuto’s abnormal physical condition from a scientific and medical point of view.

“Maybe,” Morisuke echoed, feeling slightly uneasy. This seemed too smooth, too good to be true. He grabbed Kuroo’s arm after they arrived at Kai’s car, a black Honda with tinted windows. As planned, Bokuto would wait for Akaashi at the PSB headquarters (Fukunaga would arrange his own transportation to remain separate from them). “You come too,” Morisuke said to Kuroo. “Just pretend you’re working from home.”

There was no point in hiding anymore if they already knew. If there was one safe place in the Tokyo metropolis, it would be the PSB headquarters.

 

* * *

 

The next twenty-four hours were perhaps the most peaceful twenty-four hours since—since when? Since Kuroo joined the PSB? The last time Kuroo set foot in the PSB building was the day he was formally assigned to this case, wasn’t it? Were they that much closer to the resolution? Sometimes Morisuke couldn’t tell.

Bokuto napped in the lounge and then played card games with Kuroo and Numai’s team, all bemused by the random kid at first but accepted Morisuke’s explanation that he was a protected witness. Meanwhile, Morisuke caught up on his reports, during which he noted that he had yet to investigate the architectural firms behind the design of the IST building at Teitan University.

The cybersecurity division returned Kuroo’s iPhone free of viruses but recommended that he replace it with a new one to be fully secure. They’d also managed to trace the source of the Night Baron virus to an IP address at Teitan University, but they had no information to pinpoint the exact machine. _Good enough_ , Morisuke thought and thanked them.

After Akaashi picked up Bokuto, Morisuke received a message from Shirofuku saying that Kuroo’s bulletproof vest would be ready “day after tomorrow.” It was not soon enough, but at least it would be in time for the New Year’s Eve opera. Miya had replied to his email, asking if he was going to the opera, so even though he couldn’t predict what would happen there, his guts told him that _something_ would happen.

_I’m going_ , he wrote back.

The response was immediate: _let’s talk there then_.

His finger hovered over the _Reply_ button on the screen of his phone as he suppressed the urge to continue their conversation right here and now via email. Pocketing his phone, he walked up to Kuroo lounging on the small office couch with a magazine, heart skipping a beat when their eyes met.

“Let’s go.”

 

_It’s not so bad if you’re the last person I see every evening._  
_And it’s not so bad if you’re the first person I see every morning._  
_It’s not so bad._

 

His phone rang the next day, after lunch, while he was trying to get hold of a copy of the blueprint for the IST building of Teitan University. “Yaku Morisuke,” he answered.

Shimizu said, “Inspector Iwaizumi from Division Two is on the line.”

Surprised, Morisuke sat up straighter. “Yeah, put him through.”

“Hello?”

“Hello. What is it?”

“Okay, this was easier than I thought,” Iwaizumi muttered. Someone who was probably Oikawa piped up in the background with a haughty _I told you so_. “It’s like this,” Iwaizumi continued and made an angry sound directed away from the phone. “Oikawa here insists that the PSB will be able to do something about this case. The Itakura case, that is.”

“Huh? Like what?” Morisuke asked. “This belongs to Division—”

“Division One refuses to work with us because it’s not in our jurisdiction. It’s a pain in the ass, but that’s not the point. The PSB can do things that the TMPD can’t if we want this to hold up in court.”

“What, like steal their evidence? That still won’t—”

“No, like—I can’t believe I’m suggesting this—like spread some rumors or something.”

Morisuke pinched the bridge of his nose. “What exactly do you think the PSB is?”

“Iwa-chan, you’re not doing this right! Gimme that.” There was a scuffle on the other end, and finally Oikawa said, “The PSB has connections with the media, and don’t tell me you don’t know anything about it, PSB-chan. If a little birdie told the media that the Sherlock Holmes of the Twenty-First Century made a mistake, you can imagine the uproar, and it’ll force Division One to reassign the case. Even Ushiwaka is a lesser enemy at this point.”

“Wait. Let me get this straight. You want me to tell our media informants to spread a baseless rumor about Kudo Shinichi so you can have your case reevaluated? Why can’t you do this yourself? Go create a fake Twitter account or something.”

“And who’s going to listen to a fake Twitter account with no followers? We also can’t have this traced back to Division Two in any way, shape, or form.”

Morisuke heaved a sigh. “Do you even realize what you’re asking of us? What if Kudo isn’t wrong?”

“Then I’m guilty as charged. But I’m not, so he’s clearly wrong _somewhere—_ Iwa-chan!”

Having snatched the phone back from Oikawa, Iwaizumi said, “To be honest, I hate this solution even more than you do, but we’ve been backed into a corner. Normally Division One isn’t this difficult, but just something about this case has been incredibly frustrating. It’s fine if the PSB can’t do anything.”

Morisuke opened his mouth to say _sorry_ but stopped himself, aware that Oikawa was also (allegedly) a victim of “baseless” rumors. He thought of Misaki Hana, but he didn’t know how he could do this without exposing her to the crossfire in case something went wrong. Numai had certainly spoken of “creating” some crisis to resolve, so maybe he had insider information that Morisuke didn’t.

“Look,” Morisuke said, thinking about Miya, about _that person_ , about how he was sick of being a step behind everything. “I can’t promise this will succeed, but I’ll try something. This conversation never happened.”

“No, it didn’t,” Iwaizumi agreed.

They ended the call, and Morisuke glanced at the webpage asking for login credentials to view the floor plans of Teitan University. He didn’t have time to do this properly. Nobody had time. He took off for the cybersecurity division first to request a few lousy floor plans, and went to Numai’s office.

As expected, Numai didn’t bat an eyelid when Morisuke told him about the idea. Neither did he question why or whose idea it was. Instead, he just said, “Yeah, that’s easy.”

“Easy?” Morisuke asked, narrowing his eyes at Numai.

“It’s also lame because it means you’re out of ideas, but it’s effective. The trick is to pick the right rumor mill. In this case...” Numai thought for a moment. “Blue Parrot is probably your best bet. The informants there keep tabs on high society, and Kudo Yusaku was part of it. Not sure about his son, but he was such a celebrity back then, so they should know something.”

Morisuke hesitated. “Would it really work? What about the informants’ safety?”

Numai shrugged. “There’s always risk involved. They know, but they find it fun anyway. Blue Parrot’s pretty damn good at this, so I’d just leave it to them. Oh, by the way, since you’re here...” He turned his monitor toward Morisuke and opened two photos: one of a man with long blond hair under a black fedora, and the other of a stout man wearing sunglasses and a similar hat. “First guy is the owner of that Porsche you had me track. Second one seems to be his lackey or something. Suguru saw these photos before he left—he and Mika-chan are in a safe place now, just so you know—and he said the first one’s ‘Gin’ and the second one’s ‘Vodka.’ He said you’d know those names. Randomly I asked him what his fancy code name was, but he wouldn’t tell me. Was it Cosmopolitan?”

“No, it wasn’t,” Morisuke said with a snort. It’d been Cognac, but it didn’t matter now. He stared at the photos that Numai (or someone) had captured from inside a vehicle. What should he do with them? Daishou had mentioned those two code name members along with Vermouth, hadn’t he? More importantly, what should he say to Terushima about the “rumor”?

“Should we keep watching them?” Numai was asking. “I was thinking of pulling my team out. I also thought about searching this guy’s apartment, but somehow that seemed like a bad idea.”

“No, don’t do that. Pull out,” Morisuke said hurriedly. “It’s enough to know who they are. We can nab them when the time’s right. Thanks. For everything.”

“You owe me a drink. Not gin or vodka or cosmopolitan, though.”

Morisuke rolled his eyes, about to leave but turned to Numai again. “What are you doing on New Year’s Eve?”

“Hosting my annual team party.”

“Oh.”

“Why?”

“I have extra tickets to an opera.”

“What? An _opera_? No thanks.”

It was worth asking, he supposed. Kai had agreed to go, but there was still one ticket left. Maybe he could ask Fukunaga, but with only three days to go, it might be difficult to find someone who hadn’t yet made plans. He’d think about it after he gave Terushima a call.

“Kudo Shinichi?” Terushima said after he heard the request. “Oh, this is gonna be good.”

“You know what to do?”

“I have an idea already. We’ll have something for you in the news latest by the day after tomorrow.”

“Be careful,” Morisuke added and, after he hung up, placed his forehead on his desk.

In light of Miyano Akemi’s murder, Morisuke wondered if Kudo Shinichi had been fooled by the chameleon Vermouth from the organization; the renowned detective’s response to the “rumor” could be interesting. Regardless of what Division One concluded from its investigation of Itakura’s murder, Morisuke was certain that the organization had killed Itakura over the memory stick. Their modus operandi, it seemed, was to silence anyone and everyone who might reveal something about the organization: Akemi, Itakura, that FBI agent.

What about his mother? Both Daishou and Akemi had said that the organization wanted her to stop developing ASACA, whereas Miya had expressed interest in ASACA. But the organization had been interested in ASACA as well at first until his mother declined the money—refused to cooperate on _something_. Was that why Miya started to work against the organization? Because he specifically didn’t want Morisuke’s mother dead? That sly fox spoke in riddles, almost as if... as if he didn’t want the organization to know— _couldn’t_ let them know—that he wasn’t actually one of them. Because he’d be killed otherwise.

Morisuke abruptly lifted his head from his desk. Did Miya put his mother in a medically-induced coma in order to protect her life? And to avoid suspicion, he, as Moscato, told the organization that they could use her to buy information from the PSB? That fucker. No way in hell would Morisuke thank Miya for this bullshit of a strategy.

He opened his email on his phone, hating that he’d delayed “treatment” for his mother. He could’ve—no, he couldn’t have. Akemi had hesitated when it’d come to his mother. It was because of Moscato, but it was also because of Dr. Miyano Elena. Whose side was _she_ on? Did she want ASACA too for medical treatments?

It was all because of ASACA. A machine that was like a five-year-old Mozart who couldn’t play real instruments. A machine that his mother had been developing, training, teaching for as long as Morisuke could remember. Was that all ASACA was?

His other phone buzzed, and he nearly jumped.

    [K.T.]  
    something’s come up, might go back late tonight  
    3:42 PM

Morisuke frowned. He started to write a response, but the next message arrived before he could finish typing: _i_ _think it’s about the test results_.

His heart thumped. Had Miyano Shiho found the antidote? Was there an antidote? What would happen to Bokuto if there wasn’t one? Fingers trembling, he replied _ok_ and took a deep breath. He would deal with that when the time came.

He wrapped up his work for the day and went to Beika General Hospital, where he sat by his mother’s hospital bed for over an hour, talking to her and going over everything that had happened over the long, long week. He’d give the tickets that Daishou bought to Kuroo and Kai, he decided. The tickets that his mother received, one was for him and the other was still (and would always be) for his mother, even if the seat remained empty during the opera.

**Author's Note:**

> Follow writing progress on [twitter](https://twitter.com/ritzfics) | [tumblr](https://aritzen.tumblr.com/) | [writing journal](http://ritzfics.dreamwidth.org/)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [nightingale, chapter eight](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10066817) by [notallballs (notallbees)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/notallbees/pseuds/notallballs)




End file.
